


whisper the answer

by sunsetozier



Category: IT (2017), IT - Stephen King
Genre: M/M, alternatively titled: richie tozier runs away, he thinks everyone's gonna leave him after they graduate, richie feels unimportant and like he won't be successful, so he leaves them first
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-02
Updated: 2018-06-05
Packaged: 2019-05-14 18:53:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 23,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14775258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunsetozier/pseuds/sunsetozier
Summary: ((if i said please, would you stick around?))"I'm making the right choice," he whispers to himself, heaving in a painfully slow breath, trying to bring a halt to his thoughts as they attempt to spin out of control. There's an ache in the center of his chest, and he can't tell if it's from the lack of oxygen or if it's an empty space that can only be filled by the people he left behind. "I'm doing the right thing."[In which Richie leaves everyone before they can leave him. Written for the weekly reddie prompt by fyeahreddie.]





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> i wrote this in response to the weekly reddie prompt given by tumblr user fyeahreddie! this weeks prompt was whisper.
> 
> as always, i got carried away with something that should have been simple. hope you like it!
> 
> (title + lyrics in story description are from the song whisper the answer by gregory and the hawk)
> 
> ((also: part two will be up tomorrow, i just wanted to put it in two part to help amplify the time skip between the end scene in chapter one and the beginning scene in chapter two))

            With the windows rolled down, wind whipping his hair into his face, music blasting from the speakers of his car and the sun illuminating the earth in an image of pure beauty, Richie feels free. He makes his way down the streets of Derry, duffel bags piled in the backseat, and for a moment he thinks he’s going to miss it – not the town, this place can go fuck itself for all he cares, but the _feeling_. The memories he’s made with the losers, the trouble they’ve gotten themselves into, the days and the nights spent together. They’re the only family he has, really, and he knows that his life will feel empty without them. He knows that doing this will inevitably tear him apart, piece by piece, but it’s better than the alternative, isn’t it? If he leaves, he knows it was his own doing. He can only blame himself for being alone, because he made the choice to go. And yeah, it’s going to suck, it’s going to wear him down until he’s a shell of his former self and all he feels is pain, but if he stays, then he’s stuck watching everyone else go, watching everyone else fly off to different parts of the country, perhaps even different parts of the world, while he has nowhere to run to. And that fact remains true no matter what, for he still has nowhere to run to, has nothing waiting out there for him, but he has something to run away from.

            There are tears burning in the corners of his eyes that he refuses to acknowledge, instead just pushing his sunglasses farther up his nose and smiling at the group of kids he drives past. He wonders if it’s obvious, if anyone who sees him go by can tell what he’s about to do, but the thought is quickly dismissed. The only people who could possibly figure it out are the loser’s, and that’s exactly why he told them he couldn’t join them to go see the scary movie marathon at the Aladdin. They’ll be there until night fall, and then they’ll go to the Quarry for a late-night swim, where instead of meeting up with Richie, as he’d promised, they’ll find a simple letter awaiting their arrival.

            Oh, god, the _letter_. Writing that damn thing is undoubtedly the hardest thing he’s ever done, and he didn’t even say everything he wanted to. He couldn’t figure out the proper words, the right way to say goodbye, because how could he? How could he string together a farewell when the seven of them are connected in a way deeper than any normal friendship, when the rest of the losers are a part of him in a way that he can’t describe? The only way to even begin to explain how much he loves them, how much he's going to miss them, would be to tell the truth, and that’s something he can’t do. Knowing himself, he’d word it wrong and make it sound like he was blaming the losers, which is the last thing he wants to do.

            Well, no, the last thing he wants to do is be apart from them at all, but…

            He reaches forward to turn the music up, trying to silence his thoughts with The Cure, despite knowing that it won’t actually help. This isn’t supposed to be a sad day – difficult, yes, but not sad. This is a new beginning for all of them. With him being the first to leave, he’ll set off a ripple effect, and eventually the rest of them will go off to find their potential and do amazing things, and he’ll… he’ll live, he supposes. Get a minimum wage job and some crappy apartment at the outskirts of a city far away from here, where no one will think to look for him. Not ideal, but it’s better than wasting away in this town, missing the people he loves the most. It’s not like he has much to offer the world, anyway.

            He’s going to leave. He has to and he knows it, yet here he is, driving past the Aladdin as slow as he can manage, gazing at the doors with a heavy feeling coiling in the pit of his stomach. It’d be so easy to give in, to park his car and go inside, to say his plans were cancelled and spend the day with his friends, but he can’t. He can’t do that, not to them and not to himself.

            With a heavy sigh, a pained smile carved into his features, he presses on the gas and drives away.

 

 

 

 

            The stars are bright, the night air is warm against their skin, and despite the amazing day they’ve had, there’s still something missing. Or rather, someone.

            It had been a bit suspicious when Richie declined going to see the horror movie marathon, feeding them some excuse about having to help his mom with something. Though clearly a lie, none of them pressed into the matter, knowing that he’d fess up to whatever it is once he’s ready. After all, he’s Richie, and they know him just as well as they know themselves. He had promised to meet them at the Quarry afterwards for some midnight swimming to celebrate graduating – a final hurrah, some would say, except this is far from final; the losers may be eighteen and preparing to ditch Derry with their middle fingers high in the sky, but they have no plans on leaving each other. They would never do such a thing.

            Tonight, they’re planning on asking Richie about ideas for the future, about where they should all go and what they should do. Bill wants to attend college to pursue a career in writing, but he’s not picky as to where, so long as everyone else is with him. Eddie isn’t sure what he wants to major in, but he does want to at least get an associates degree to help him find higher paying jobs. Beverly doesn’t want to go to college, and is planning on saving up money and buying a place to start a shop where she’ll sell the clothes she makes – a rough plan, one that needs to be ironed out, but she’s not in a rush. Mike isn’t sure what he wants to do yet, but he’s decided to at least take a few classes at the closest community college they end up by. Ben’s dead set on architecture, but much like Bill, he has no preference as to where he goes as long as he’s with his friends. Richie had never offered an opinion on the matter, only ever distancing himself whenever someone tried to talk about it, even going as far as to dismiss himself from the conversation and walk away if they wouldn’t change the subject. The others just assumed he was stressed, trying to figure out what he wanted to do, unsure about what career path to go in or if he should try going to college or not. Up until now they’d respected his space, not bringing it up around him in fear of making him upset, but now that it’s almost July and they’re able to leave, they need to confront the topic and start preparing.

            Their plan kind of falls apart, though, when they get to the Quarry and Richie is nowhere to be seen. “He’s probably just running late,” Bill assures as they make their way down the path, pushing aside low hanging branches and basking in the calm feeling of the summer’s night. “We should wait until he gets here before swimming, though.”

            Nodding in agreement, the six of them make their way to the cliff overlooking the water, grinning from ear to ear. Beverly runs a hand through her hair, curling just below her ears and tickling the back of her neck in the breeze as she scans the area around her, feeling content but unable to shake off the twinge of tension in her muscles that always lingers when all seven of them aren’t together. It won’t go away until Richie gets here so she isn’t too worried, but then a shiver runs down her spine and a bitter taste rises in the back of her throat and she knows, somehow, that something is wrong.

            “I think he was already here,” Ben speaks up, lifting a hand to point down below. “Look, there’s tire tracks.” As everyone follows his gaze, they discover that he’s right – in the damp, muddy shore by the water, there’s clear evidence of a car having been there recently. Beverly shifts uncomfortably, the bitterness on her tongue growing stronger as she eyes the tracks. A heavy silence falls over them, weighing down their shoulders as a feeling of uneasiness curls around them, suffocating.

            Eddie’s the one who breaks the silence, his voice shaky as he says, “I think there’s something down there, on the rock. Do you guys see that?”

            A rectangle of white glints in the moonlight. Wordlessly, Stan steps onto the path leading down to the shore of the Quarry and starts walking, his head held high despite the way his heart pounds in his throat. He doesn’t know what to expect out of this, doesn’t know what he’ll find, but he knows it isn’t good. Behind him he hears the footsteps of the other losers following after him, all of them on the brisk of sprinting as they try to act like they're not as on edge as they really are. It's as if giving off a barely contained sense of faux calm might prevent whatever's about to happen from happening, but they all know the truth as they reach the bottom of the trail and edge closer to the rock. They know this isn't something they can try to play off – there's no point in trying, anyway. They can't play anything off without Richie there, and they all have the sense that Richie's far away from here.

            When they reach the mystery object, everyone freezes to gaze down at it in uncertainty, scanning over the folded over paper weighed down by a small rock placed in the center. On the front, barely visible in the moonlight, in the familiar scrawl of their one and only Richie Tozier, is the word _Losers_ with a small heart by the second _s_. Swallowing thickly, Mike is the first to reach down and grab it, slowly turning to sit on the rock once the paper is in his hands. Hoarsely, he asks, "Hey, Stan? Do you have a flashlight? It's too dark, I can barely see it."

            Silently, Stan reaches behind him to pull his backpack off his shoulders. He has to stifle a sharp, anxious breath as he remembers Richie teasing him for still carrying around a backpack earlier this week - "We're graduates now, Stanny," he had said, playfully poking and prodding at Stan's shoulders, waist, hips, whatever he could reach. "We carry our shit in our pockets like real adults." At the time, Stan rolled his eyes and shoved him away, murmuring something along the lines of how annoying and aggravating Richie was, to which the boy merely grinned and cooed, "You love and you know it!" Now, though, Stan's hands shake as he tries to open the bag, fingers fumbling with the zipper whenever he attempts to get a grip on it. He's cursing under his breath, angry at himself for being so overwhelmed when nothing has even happened yet, but no matter how hard he tries to focus on the task at hand, he can't. Eventually, after what may have been seconds or minutes, but feels like hours, Ben reaches over and places his hands on top of Stan's, whispering, "Hey, I got it. It's okay." Silently, Stan releases the bag, letting Ben take it and open it up, digging around for only a moment before pulling out the small flashlight inside.

            "Thanks," Mike murmurs, accepting the item when Ben extends it towards him. He flicks it on and angles it towards the page, taking a deep breath before unfolding it. The rest of the losers step away, trying to gouge out Mike's reaction in fear of what the paper contains, every moment passing by making them more and more antsy as Mike's eyes flicker back and forth, reading it slowly and thoroughly. He shows no outer reaction for a long time other than his jaw clenching tighter and tighter, until eventually he looks up and meets Eddie's worried gaze. "Everyone needs to read this," he says roughly, voice steady yet somehow wobbly at the same time. "But you need to read it first."

            Stunned, Eddie takes a shaky step forward and questions, "Why me?"

            "Because you know him more than we do," Mike answers simply, pushing himself to his feet so that Eddie can sit on the rock. For a moment, Eddie wants to protest, but he finds himself aching to rest his legs as his knees tremble, so he gratefully accepts. Hastily, Mike adds, "I mean, we all _know_ him, but..."

            With a glint in her eyes, Beverly says, "You guys have your own connection, like how all of us have our own connections. You just... you understand the way he thinks, Eddie. In a way that none of us can figure out."

            Nodding, Mike agrees, "Exactly. And we need to understand what he's thinking now more than ever." Holding the paper out to Eddie in one hand, the flashlight extended in the other, he instructs, "Read it."

 

      

_Hey, losers._

_So, this is really weird and sappy and totally different than what I normally do, but it's necessary, I think. You see, I have something really important that I need to tell you guys, but I don't know how to say it. Like, at all. I'm sorry if this makes no sense._

_I don't know how to word this, so I guess I'll just spit it out. Basically, I'm leaving. By the time you read this, I'll already be gone. I'm not telling you where I'm going, and I'm not telling you why, but just know it's not because of you guys, okay? If I had it my way, I'd never leave the six of you, but it's not up to me. We're growing up and I know there's no way we'll ever be able to be together the way we have been up until now, and I just want to rip the band-aid off._

_So, I'm going, and I'm not coming back. Take care of yourselves, okay? I know you're all going to be incredibly successful at whatever you choose to do, and I hope life treats you all well. I love you guys so fucking much._

_Love, Richie_

_P.S. Don't come find me. It's not worth it, honestly._

 

           

            By the time Eddie's done reading the letter, his stomach is churning uncomfortably and he has to shove the paper and the flashlight into Bill's hands before hunching over the empty the contents of his stomach into the grassy shore beside him. His throat burns and his eyes water and he feels miserably, miserably sick, fingers trembling and heart aching in his chest. Vaguely, he registers that someone's hand is on his shoulder and rubbing his back, but he can't focus on it, can't focus on anything through the ringing in his ears, the constant buzzing in his head. He can't shake this dizzy feeling consuming him, making everything blurry and far away.

            "I got him," he hears Mike say somewhere behind him, his voice echoing around Eddie's brain like he's a million miles from here. "You guys read the letter. I'll make sure he's okay." Shortly after, Eddie's feels the hands on him tighten their hold just enough to guide him into a proper sitting position, tilting his head up until he blinks his vision clear and looks up at Mike, who's watching him with eyes reflecting both understanding and concern. Gently, he coaxes Eddie's hand up until his fingers are clasped around a water bottle – another item from Stan's backpack, Eddie assumes. Gratefully, Eddie accepts the offer and takes a long drink, rinsing out the vile taste out of his mouth, a mixture of vomit and a salty aftertaste from the tears tracking down his cheeks. He didn't even realize he was crying, but now he's painfully aware of the stickiness coating his skin, and it's in this same moment that he notices the painful hiccups rumbling somewhere from within his chest. "Slow down," Mike tells him, taking the bottle back and rubbing a hand over Eddie's spine in soothing circles. "Breathe. It's alright."

            Those words set Eddie off again, fresh tears welling in his eyes as he abruptly pushes himself to his feet, shoving Mike away from him with whatever force he can summon. "How can you say that?!" He angrily hisses, wiping at his cheeks aggressively, sniffling and shaking his head. "He's- he's fucking _gone_ , Mike! He left! How can you look me in the fucking eye and tell me- tell me it's alright? It's not fucking alright!"

            "Eddie," Ben whispers, his tone thick. Eddie parts his lips to say more but comes to an abrupt halt as he looks at his friends, all of them looking just as broken as he feels, and his anger quickly subsides.

            "I'm sorry," he breathes, lower lip wobbling. He looks at Mike, eyes apologetic. "I'm sorry, I didn't- I shouldn’t have—"

            Mike shakes his head, stepping forward to envelope Eddie in a tight hug, one that he instantly melts into, shoulders wracking with heavy sobs. " _I'm_ sorry," Mike says softly, rocking Eddie back and forth slowly, feeling more than seeing as the other losers gather around them to join the embrace. "It's not alright, but it will be," he promises, voice certain even as his eyes glimmer with his own tears. "We'll find him, okay? We'll find him, Eddie."

            Eddie nods into Mike's chest, repeating, "We'll find him," to himself until it's a mantra in his head, something to fight for, to never give up on. _I won't rest_ , he thinks in the back of his foggy mind. _I won't rest until we figure out where you are._

 

 

 

 

            Life without the losers is, as expected, considerably less enjoyable, Richie discovers. A week into this new life, a week consisting of him driving until he can't stay awake anymore, pulling over into abandoned parking lots and the sides of empty streets to sleep, and only stopping once a day for a few snacks to eat on the road, and he's already feeling it. Not a heaviness like he assumes, but rather something empty, like a hole has been punched through the center of his chest, splintering his ribs and slicing up his insides. It feels like a physical wound that he can't tend to, can't patch up or fix because it's somewhere within him where he can't reach.

            So, he lives with it, and he drives, and he watches scenery change as he goes south, then west, then north, then west again, until he knows he's far from Maine but feels like he isn't far enough. He needs to go somewhere the losers would never expect him to be – LA is out of the question, because that's just obvious. New York is too close to Derry for his comfort, as is Boston. Seattle, like LA, is just too predictable of him, a place where he's certain he'd be found. Perhaps he should just avoid cities altogether and disappear in some small town that the others have never even heard of, somewhere by the water; west coast is his preference, because it's completely across the country, but he's not sure if the money he has saved up from summer jobs over the years will be enough to get him there. He supposes it's worth a shot, though, and if he doesn't make it all the way then he'll just stay wherever he ends up until he finds a way to get more cash so he can finish the journey.

            To be fair, it's not all bad. Sure, he spends most of the time in his car with his radio as loud as it can go, trying to drown out the silence that accompanies him when his friends aren't around, and sure, when he offers kind smiles to strangers he passes it's just a rouse to cover up his unrelenting urge to cry, cry, and keep crying, but it's still...

            Well. It's not good. He can't lie to himself about that, but he's okay. He misses the hell out of his friends, but he's okay. Actually, he's better than okay! He's... well, he's.... driving until further notice, and that's what he really needs to be thinking about, isn't it? Not about the life he left behind, and especially not the _people_ he left behind. From this point on, he needs to think forward, not backward. If he doesn't, he fears he might fall apart much sooner than he anticipated.

 

 

 

 

            Two weeks into the disappearance of Richie Tozier and the losers are feeding themselves with faux hope to try and avoid confronting the fear burning inside them. Despite the promise they made upon discovering Richie was gone, they've had to set aside time to figure out how the fuck they're supposed to find him. It makes no sense to leave before they have the slightest clue of where they're going, but with every hour that goes by where they're not actively searching for their friend, they feel themselves getting more and more anxious.

            Mike, Eddie and Stan are the three who have been trying to narrow down where Richie may have gone – Mike, because he's able to look at the situation from an unbiased point of view; Stan, because he's known Richie the longest and has heard every dream about every city; Eddie, because, as Beverly had said, he understands how Richie thinks and will be able to confirm or deny the ideas that the others throw out there. If he wasn't consumed by worry, he'd almost find the whole situation entertaining, the three of them huddled around a map laid out on Mike's kitchen table, pens in hand, scribbling down whatever they can think of that may help, but he is consumed by worry and can’t find it in himself to notice the entertainment value of this situation.

            "He doesn't want us to find him," Eddie says, voice strong and certain – this, he can do. Being productive, he can do. But thinking about the fact that Richie's been driving God-knows-where for two weeks and is already far away from here? Well, he can do that, too, but it'll lead to a fucking breakdown. So, he'll keep doing this, instead. "He wouldn't go somewhere we'd expect him to. That means LA is out of the question. He's a city soul through and through, so he won't be in any city at all."

            Stan gnaws on his lower lip, crossing out LA, New York, Chicago, Seattle, and Boston. "What if he leaves the country?"

            Instantly, Eddie shakes his head. "He has money saved up, but not enough for a passport and a plane ticket. Plus, he took his car. He may be running away, but he's still sentimental. He wouldn't just leave it behind, there's too many memories in that thing." Tapping the end of the pen against his lower lip, Eddie scans over the map, gaze sweeping past all the markings they've left behind on it. With a low hum, Eddie points to the east coast and states, "He'll want to be as far away from here as possible. He's either heading west, or south."

            "My money's on west," Mike muses, dragging his pen across the east coast to cross it out. "He hates when it gets too hot, and the southern sun is fucking brutal. Besides, like you said, he's a city boy. He won't go to a city, but I think he'll be close. Just a few hours away, so he can spend a day there when he wants to."

            Nodding, Eddie murmurs, "You're right, he'll definitely place himself by a city somewhere. But which one?" He leans closer, his fingertip dragging over the paper in the featherlight touch, weighing the options in his head. Richie is predictable to a certain level, but he's still spontaneous and surprising. They can limit the area they'll be looking, but they can't pinpoint his exact location. Sighing, Eddie stands up straight, hands falling limply to his sides, and says, "It could be any of the cities on the west coast. California, Oregon, and Washington. That's where we have to go."

            "Three whole states," Stan mutters, shaking his head, features crestfallen. "That's so much. How are we going to find him in all of that?" He points to the states and circles them with his finger, sucking in a harsh breath. "There's millions and millions of people here. How do we find Richie out of all of them?"

            "We find a way," Mike says firmly, voice leaving no room for negotiation. Glancing between Eddie and Stan, he adds, "We know where to look, and between the six of us, we have plenty of money saved up to get there. So, the question is... when do we leave?"

 

 

 

 

            It's day twenty when Richie succumbs to the fact that he has to stop driving for a little while. At first, being behind the wheel was a great distraction from what he was doing – he kept all his focus on the road, drowning out intrusive thoughts with music, music, and more music. If he tried hard enough, he could almost pretend that nothing was wrong. He drives for two weeks just fine, taking his sweet time going down back roads and through towns of people who don't seem to care one way or another about if he stays or leaves. He lounged in his car for a few days somewhere between the first and second week, not wanting to get anywhere too fast, longing to make the road trip last because he knows it'll only hurt when he reaches his destination, before he kept going.

            But then the third week comes around, and Richie can't drive anymore, can't sit in this stuffy vehicle for hours upon hours just to choke on the feeling of being alone, so fucking alone. There's a moment where he thinks he hears Beverly's voice in the back seat, and then he's crying, unable to contain the snotty tears as they roll messily down his cheeks as memory after memory plays in his mind. All the things that they've done in this car, the small adventures they got up to back in Derry, the nights that him and Eddie slept in here because neither of them wanted to go home and deal with their parents.

            He can't be in this fucking thing for another second. He's suffocating in here.

            Yanking on the steering wheel, he pulls over to the side of the road, ignoring the angry honking of cars behind him as he does so, and stumbles out of the vehicle, taking in deep, greedy breaths. The world around him feels like it's spinning as he leans against the hood of his car, legs threatening to give out underneath him as he dry heaves, roughly swallowing the bile in his throat. He refuses to be like this so soon – refuses to be such a mess when there's a whole lifetime ahead of him that he has to get through without the losers, how the hell is he supposed to handle it when he can't even make it this far without breaking down? God, what was he thinking, running off like this? He can't do it, he has to go back—

            No, no, that's not right. He can't go back. He did this for them, so that they didn't have to worry about leaving him behind when they flew off to be successful. Going back will just ruin that. This is what he has to do.

            "I'm making the right choice," he whispers to himself, heaving in a painfully slow breath, trying to bring a halt to his thoughts as they attempt to spin out of control. There's an ache in the center of his chest, and he can't tell if it's from the lack of oxygen or if it's an empty space that can only be filled by the people he left behind. "I'm doing the right thing." He repeats this under his breath, feeling his lungs expand as his eyes begin to dry, and eventually he stands up straight. It feels like hours have gone by, but when he climbs back into the driver's seat the clock shows that it's only been fifteen minutes. Wordlessly, he pulls back onto the road and heads towards the nearest town, keeping his eyes out for signs pointing to a motel. As he drives, he keeps the mantra going in his mind. _I'm making the right choice. I'm doing the right thing._

_I can't go back._

 

 

 

 

            Leaving Derry is both invigorating and absolutely terrifying.

            On one hand, they're finally ridding themselves of a town that's done nothing but hurt and traumatize them. They're leaving behind parents that kind of care (but not really, and honestly, is there something in the water here that just causes adults to stop giving a shit about their kids?) and people who ignored them in the halls at school, and they'll never be back. On the other hand, though, they're driving to the other side of the fucking country to start looking for their best friend who decided to ship himself off to who knows where for whatever fucking reason.

            So, yeah. It’s safe to say that watching Derry disappear in the rear view mirror is bittersweet at best.

            Eddie lets out a slow breath as he looks away from the mirror, swallowing roughly as he turns his attention to the map in his hands. Mike is to his left, hands on the steering wheel as he drives, Stan in the backseat, while Bill, Beverly and Ben are in Bill’s car behind them. They wanted to find a way to take one car in order to save gas money, but it became clear that they’d have to invest in some kind of van if they wanted that to happen, and purchasing an entirely new vehicle was completely out of the question. Because of that, they came to this arrangement – three in one car, three in the other. Naturally, Mike, Stan and Eddie wanted to be in the same vehicle; after putting so much time and thought into figuring out where to look, they feel responsible for making sure they don’t get lost along the way. It was unintentional, but, while Bill may the ‘leader’ of the group, the three of them feel as though they’re in charge of this specific situation.

            “Take the next right,” Eddie murmurs, flattening out the map of Maine in his lap, running his finger over the highlighted path that’ll lead them to New Hampshire, then New York, and onward. In the glove compartment is a stack of all the states they’ll be driving through, each one also highlighted to show where exactly they’re going, all of them containing certain rest stops and cheap motels that are circled. The goal is to make it to western Washington within four days, only stopping to load up on food and sleep when completely necessary, and then make their way through the three states. They’ll have to go slow enough to be able to thoroughly search for Richie, but they don’t want to be too slow, which is something that is stressing Eddie out beyond belief, because what is too slow?

            _Too slow_ is more time for something bad to happen. _Too slow_ is another day, week, month, maybe even a year without Richie in his life. _Too slow_ is the difference between Richie missing them and Richie realizing life is fine without them. _Too slow_ isn’t an option.

            Mike takes the next right, as instructed, and asks, “How far away is New Hampshire, again?”

            “About two-hundred and fifty miles,” Eddie tells him instantly, the calculations that he’d made days ago fresh in his mind from looking over them repeatedly. “If there’s no traffic, we’ll be there in a few hours, then we’ll be in New York by dinner time. We can stop to eat there, see how everyone’s feeling after eight hours in a car, and figure out if we should find a place to stay or if we can keep going.”

            “I already vote to keep going,” Stan says from the backseat, leaning forward so his head is sticking out between the seats. He rests his arm on the back of Eddie’s headrest and presses his forehead to his palm, shaking his head slightly. “Now that we’re finally on the road, I can’t imagine stopping for even a minute.”

            Chuckling lightly, Mike muses, “You say that now, but let’s see what you have to say in eight hours.”

            “I’ll say the same thing,” Stan states matter-of-factly, his lips twitching into the smallest of smiles. That’s one thing that’s gotten better in the weeks that they’ve been preparing for this – after coming to the realization that Richie would feel guilty if he found out they were stoic on a road trip across the country, the rest of the losers decided to let themselves feel some semblance of normalcy. They went back to telling jokes, laughing with one another, and even taking the time to appreciate how many stories they’ll have to tell Richie once they track him down. It’s been difficult, as they can all feel that gap within themselves that only Richie can fill, but they’re managing. “Besides,” Stan goes on, “there’s three of us in here. We can take turns being in charge of navigation,” he points to Eddie, “and driving,” he turns his hand to direct his pointing in Mike’s direction, “and whoever isn’t in charge of that can take a nap back here,” he gestures over his shoulder to the backseat. “So when one of you is tired, let me know. We can pull over and switch roles, and they,” he jabs a thumb behind him, indicating Bill, Ben, and Beverly in the other car, “can do the same. Easy peasy.”

            Sharing a quick look of genuine surprise with Mike, Eddie finds himself nodding. “That’s a really good idea, actually. Why didn’t you say something about this before now?”

            Stan shrugs. “Didn’t think of it until now. Pretty good, right?”

            “Really good, yeah,” Mike chuckles.

            “Turn left at the next stoplight,” Eddie says.

            Mike turns left just as Stan points out the license plate of the car in front of them with a laugh. “Look,” he insists, laughter escalating with each passing second until there’s tears in the corners of his eyes. “Look! It looks like it says bitch!” Eddie follows his gaze and snorts when he sees B17CH, just as Mike lets out a loud, bellowing laugh. The three of them dissolve into a mess of giggles and happy tears, and while Eddie can still feel the absence of Richie in the car with them – can feel the absence of the other three as well, the ones trailing behind them, but can especially feel the empty space where Richie should be sitting – he can also feel the reassurance within his chest, the certainty that, together, they will find Richie, and they will all be together again.

            It’s just a matter of how long it’ll take.

 

 

 

 

            Richie ends up staying in a hotel on the edge of a small town called Everton, somewhere by the border between Idaho and Montana. He spends the first couple days here in his hotel room, only leaving to buy greasy fast food from the place across the street and packs of cigarettes from the gas station a few buildings down the block. He doesn’t even remember why he bought the first pack – his dad smoked constantly when he was growing up, one of the few things that Richie absolutely hated about Wentworth (the others things being how often his worked and his apparent inability to understand when Richie was joking and when he wasn’t, which got him grounded far too many times to count). Whenever Richie even smelled cigarette smoke, it make him gag and caused irritation to itch at the back of his neck, but somehow, somewhere, he decided to buy some for himself.

            He left his parents back in Derry, he’s just now realizing. Sure, they’re not the best folks, not understanding their sons behavior, becoming more and more emotionally detached over the years as they struggled to keep up with Richie’s sporadic growth spurts and the endless stream of words falling from his lips at an unfathomable speed, but they _cared_. When he was having a bad day, they let him stay home and made his favorite food for dinner, offering comfort in the only way they could understand how to. When he told jokes they didn’t like hearing, they’d snap his name and then immediately falter when he winced away from their loud voice, apologizing and politely asking that he not say things like that again. They didn’t really get the fact that Richie doesn’t have much of a filter, barely has any control over what he says or does, and there were nights where he just couldn’t handle the way the looked at him, as if trying to solve a riddle that’s written in a different language – these were the nights he slept in his car, Eddie usually accompanying him, taking any chance he had to escape his mother for even a few meek hours – but they tried to. God, Went and Maggie tried, and Richie loves them for it. Maybe not the same love a child should feel for their parents, but a love that one feels towards someone who did everything they could to help you. A distant kind of love built off a feeling of gratitude, a love that will last a lifetime, a love that he’ll always remember when he thinks of them.

            Now, he’ll probably never see them again.

            While the smell of cigarettes used to be suffocating, he now finds them comforting. They remind of his father; the way the burn his throat and ache in his lungs, bringing tears to his eyes with every puff, is worth it.. And if he buys a bouquet of roses on the way back to his hotel room because they remind him of the garden his mother adores so much, the one that he could always see so perfectly from his bedroom window, well… no one needs to know but him.

            He leaves Everton after staying there for a week, bringing it up to a month – four long, lonely weeks – since he left Derry, and he heads west as soon as he’s back on the road. The worker behind the desk of the hotel smiles at him when he checks out. He tries to, but he can’t find it in himself to smile back.

 

 

 

 

            Stan’s idea of rotating positions does wonders for their progress, getting them halfway across the country in two days – and that’s with them stopping every couple of hours to use the restroom, get food, and take a break from the stuffiness inside the vehicles, greedily inhaling the fresh air around them – but it also makes things a little… _tense_. As much as the losers love each other, spending so much time in such a small proximity without any alone time in between is bound to make things more difficult. It’s more evident in Eddie and Bill than it is for everyone else, seeing as they’re the two who struggle to contain their frustration the most out of the group. It’s a blessing that they aren’t in the same car, as they would quickly devolve into a screaming match within minutes, but that doesn’t make it any easier on the others as they struggle to deal with their individual snarky remarks, a permanent scowl on their faces as they grumble softly under their breath.

            It’s Mike that suggests they rent a few rooms for the night. “We’re ahead of schedule,” he calmly explains when Eddie snaps at him about how stupid of an idea that is. “And we clearly need a break from each other if we want to get through the rest of this without someone getting murdered. You can get your own room, take a breather, and have a fresh attitude when we leave in the morning.” Sparing Eddie a quick glance, he adds, “I don’t to waste time anymore than you do, Eddie, but this is necessary. You trust me, right?”

            Eddie parts his lips, looking ready to complain, but falters as Mike’s words register in his mind. Slowly, brows pinched together in confusion, he replies, “Of course I trust you.”

            “Then trust me when I say we need to do this,” Mike says, already turning on the blinker and getting ready to take the next exit. “We’ll lose our minds if we don’t.”

            Even Eddie can’t argue that, no matter how much he wants to, so he only slumps in his seat and nods, his lips turned down into a frown as Mike leads them to the nearest motel he can find. He makes sure to keep his mouth shut the entire time they find a place, check in, and start making their way up to their rooms, but his weakly held together composure quickly collapses when him and Bill accidentally knock shoulders as they try to pass each other to get into their individual rooms. Instantly, Eddie finds his eyes narrowing into a glare while Bill spits, ‘Jesus, Eddie, fucking move!”

            “Are you serious?” Eddie scoffs, arms crossed over his chest as he leans closer to get into Bill’s face. “ _You_ ran into _me_! You fucking move!”

            “Guys,” Stan tries to intervene, taking a step forward to try and push them away from each other, but neither of them hear him. “Guys, don’t—”

            “I didn’t run into you,” Bill grits out, lips drawn back into some kind of animalistic snarl. “It’s not my fault you’re fucking blind and got in my way.”

            It’s stupid, Eddie knows, to have a full blown fight over something so insignificant, but he has two days of tension and stress weighing down his shoulders, and any semblance of self control was left back in the middle of Minnesota. So, with a sharp breath, he surges forward and shoves at Bill’s chest, not hard enough to cause any harm, but just enough to make him stumble back into the wall. “Don’t blame me for something that’s not my fault,” he hisses, his eyes absolutely _burning_ with rage.

            “What, us running into each other?” Bill asks, tone condescending and quivering with anger. “Or Richie leaving?”

            Eddie blanches. “What the fuck does that mean?”

            Desperately, Beverly tugs on Bill’s arm, only to be shaken off as Bill pushes away from the wall, stepping in Eddie’s space. “You know the way he thinks,” Bill practically growls. “That’s what they said, right? You know him better than anyone ever has, and even _you_ couldn’t figure out what he was planning to do. What do you call that, huh? Because I call it _bullshit_.”

            “Bill,” Mike warns, jaw clenching as he contemplates if/when to interfere with their interaction.

            Either not hearing Mike, or just not caring at all, Bill goes on. “If you know him so well, why didn’t you find a way to stop him? Why’d you let him go, Eddie? If anyone could have done it, it’s you, and you did _nothing_. You didn’t even care enough to realize something was wrong!”

            “No,” Eddie tries to say, but his voice gets caught in his throat, anger dissipating into an overwhelming sense of dread. He shakes his head back and forth, heart thundering in his chest. “No, I- I—”

            “I just- I don’t get it,” Bill keeps talking, completely ignoring everyone’s interjections. “I mean, it was obvious that you guys have a connection from day fucking one. I could see it, every fucking time that you looked at each other. I could tell, and I thought- I mean, it just made sense, you know? And I figured that if anyone was good for him, it was you, but _you_ let this happen. _You_ let him go.”

            Sounding both parts shocked and thoroughly pissed off, Ben says, “Bill, stop it.”

            But Bill doesn’t stop, not yet. Instead, he takes another step closer to Eddie, and while Bill is only six inches or so taller than him, Eddie feels absolutely tiny right now, quivering under his heated gaze. “If you’re so in love with him,” Bill whispers, his features suddenly calm but just as terrifying, “then why the fuck did you let him leave?”

            And that’s when Eddie breaks.

            It starts gradually, his brows twitching up and his lower lip trembling, and steadily grows as tears burn the corner of his eyes, slowly rolling down his cheeks. Now, Bill and him have had plenty of fights in the past – they love each other to death, sure, but they often butt heads due to how short-tempered they tend to be. This is no exception, of course, but this is easily the harshest that Bill has been during one of their arguments. And the worst part is that, looking into his eyes, Eddie can tell it’s not just a product of anger. At least some part of Bill blames Eddie for Richie running away.

            That realization feels like a stab directly to the chest, and Eddie, unable to face Bill any longer, pushes past him to get into his motel room, slamming and locking the door behind him just in time for an ugly sob to rip its way from his throat. He leans heavily against the wall, unable to stop the flow of tears streaming down his face, and slides down into a sitting position in order to bury his face in his knees.

            Out in the hall, Mike whirls around to face Bill upon realizing that the door is locked. His features are cool and collected, but his eyes are alight with rage as he calmly states, “Bill, go lay down. Now.”

            Clearly affronted by this, Bill scoffs, gesturing to the closed door as he exclaims, “You’re on his side?! Come on, Mikey, you know I’m right!”

            “You don’t get to call me Mikey right now,” Mike grits out, barely able to contain his own seething anger. “Either go cool off or expect a much bigger fight than the one you just had. And trust me, Bill, you won’t fucking win.”

            “Oh, that’s such bullshit!” Bill whines, turning to face Ben and Beverly with his eyebrows raised. “You guys are with me, right?”

            Ben clenches his jaw, eyes flashing. “You went too far.”

            “No, I didn’t!” Bill protests, groaning.

            Taking a step forward, Beverly places a hand on Bill’s shoulder, her features gentle and concerned rather than angry. Bill looks hopeful for a moment, thinking that she’s siding with him, but falters when she shakes her head. “Listen,” she tells him, holding a finger up to her lips before using that same finger to point to the door Eddie disappeared behind. Bill rolls his eyes, looking ready to argue even more, but Beverly squeezes his shoulder and sternly states, “I’m serious. Be quiet and listen.” With an annoyed sigh, he complies, crossing his arms over his chest and letting the hallway fall into a tense silence. For a moment, there’s nothing, but then his ears pick up on the small sound – it’s faint, muffled, but not far away.

            It’s Eddie on the other side of the door, cradling his own legs and pressing his forehead to the material of his jeans, his sobs heavy and painful, aching deeply in his chest. Through his cries, he barely manages to choke out incoherent words, repeatedly mumbling, “I’m sorry,” and, “I didn’t know.” The amount of remorse in his voice is heartbreaking, and in the midst of a particularly rough sob, there’s a certain string of noises that sounds eerily like Richie’s name.

            “Think about what you said to him,” Beverly says softly, dropping her hand from Bill’s shoulder. Stiffly, Bill faces her, his jaw slack as realization crosses his features, a cloud of guilt hanging over his head and his heart. Tenderly, Beverly tells him, “This is hard on all of us, Bill, and I know you get frustrated easily, but… you were right about one thing. He’s in love with Richie.” Wordlessly, Bill shakes his head, looking shell shocked, his own words running through his head. “This is harder for him than we can even begin to imagine,” she goes on, “and you just told him that it’s his fault.”

            “I d-d-didn’t—” Bill stutters, swallowing roughly. “I didn’t m-mean it, I wuh-wasn’t thinking—”

            “We know, Bill,” Beverly interrupts. “But you still said it.”

            Letting out a sigh, Mike steps forward, all of his anger from before fading into pure exhaustion, and wraps an arm around Bill’s shoulder. “You can fix this tomorrow,” he says, leading the way down the hall, towards the rest of the rooms they rented for the night. “Let’s just get some sleep first.”

 

 

 

 

            It takes five weeks to find a place to settle down in.

            To Richie, it feels like it’s been years.

            According to the map he buys at the gas station he stops at, Olympia is the capitol of Washington State. It’s odd, considering the fact that it’s not particularly grand, nor is it particularly cozy, but as he makes his way down the streets of the small city, he finds that it doesn’t look half bad. A bit farther north than he was hoping – which is probably good, considering the fact that the losers will definitely assume he’s in California somewhere – but the buildings are all warm and welcoming, and at least half the businesses he passes have a _NOW HIRING!_ sign in their window, which is exactly what he needs now that his saved up cash is nearly gone. It’s surrounded by a wide variety of smaller towns and cities that look interesting enough to visit, and if he feels like driving for two hours to take an hour long ferry ride across the Puget Sound, then he can go exploring Seattle sometime, too.

            It’s better than Derry, that’s for sure, but it’s still dull without his friends. He can’t be too picky, though, so after wandering around for a few hours and scoping the area out, he finds a warm looking motel on the outskirts of the city (it doesn’t feel big enough to be called a city, but it certainly isn’t a town, either) and books a room. There’s an older lady behind the desk, her features soft and kind, who asks how long he’ll be staying. Richie just shrugs and says, “Until I have enough money to rent my own place, I guess.”

            “Oh.” She looks mildly shocked by his response, but her smile only becomes more gentle, comforting. “Well, stay as long as you need. Hopefully your job pays well enough that it won’t take long.”

            It’s completely unlike himself, to be so grouchy and rude, but he can’t help it when he shoulders one of his duffle bags and bitterly murmurs, “Need a job that pays at all before I can worry about one that pays well.” The woman blanches, not expecting the harsh twist in his tone. Richie feels guilt curl angrily in his gut, causing him to let out a long sigh as he tiredly rubs at his eyes. “Sorry,” he tells her, voice sounding just as tired as he feels. “I’ve been driving for, like, a month, and I’m not in the best place right now. I didn’t mean to snap at you. Thanks for the room.” He tries for a smile but inevitably falls short, leaving him to hunch his shoulders and turn around with the intention of making his way upstairs.

            “Wait!” The lady calls out, and when Richie looks back, she looks equal parts sympathetic and conflicted. Taking a moment to consider her next words, she gnaws on her lower lip and glances over her shoulder before looking back to him and asking, “You need a job?”

            “I mean,” Richie starts, confused. “It’d definitely help, yeah. Why?”

            Holding up a hand, she states, “Wait here,” and then promptly spins around to disappear through the door behind her. Richie blinks, unsure of what to make of this; he briefly considers going up to his room despite her instructions, his limbs heavy with exhaustion (both physical and mental), but he opts to stay put. Faintly, he can hear her voice as she speaks to someone else, picking up snippets of words, like, “—poor boy—“ and “—needs help—“. Curiosity peaked, he makes his way closer to the front desk and leans against it, glancing around the lobby in order to pass the time until, finally, the lady comes back, another woman trailing behind her. They look to be around the same age, not particularly old but just aged enough to start developing wrinkles here and there. Looking at Richie, the lady gestures to the other woman and says, “This is my wife, Anne. We own the motel.”

            Richie parts his lips, eyes widening slightly. “Wife?”

            “Not legally, of course,” Anne tells him, rolling her eyes in frustration – not at him, he realizes, but at the fact that she isn’t bound by law to her partner. “Hopefully they get on top of gay marriage before we die, but as far as we’re concerned, we’re married.” She holds up her left hand to show off a bright, sparkling ring on her finger, then drops it onto the desktop, cocking an eyebrows as she scans Richie slowly. “So, you’re looking for a job?”

            “I’m looking for a room, which I already got,” Richie corrects, shaking his head to himself, too tired to fully process what’s going on. “I mean, I need a job, too, but that’s not what I came here for.”

            Anne smiles at that, apparently finding amusement in the clear confusion in his eyes. “Well, Betty said you need a job to save up for a place to stay. Is that true?” Slowly, Richie nods, unable to form a coherent response. Anne’s smile widens. “Well, you’re in luck. If you want, you can work here and rent out a room on the top floor, where employees live. We’ll take rent out of your paycheck so you don’t have to worry paying us, and if you ever find a better job or want to move out, just give up a week’s notice and we’ll offer good wishes on your way out.”

            Glancing between the woman doubtfully, Richie asks, “What’s the catch?”

            “No catch,” the lady, Betty, promises. “We’re always looking for employees. Not a lot of people want to work for a couple of queers, you know? Finding workers… it’s not easy for us.”

            “You don’t have to decide yet,” Anne intervenes, making a show of checking her watch. “It’s late and you look dead tired, so making choices right now isn’t a good idea, but think about it, okay? And when you’ve made your decision, come to the front desk. If one of us isn’t out here, just ask for us and we’ll come out to talk.”

            Richie takes a moment to mull over her words, gnawing on his lower lip thoughtfully, before giving a slight nod. “Okay. I’ll… I’ll think about it.”

 

 

 

 

            “I don’t want to talk to you.”

            “Eddie, I’m _sorry_ , can we please just—”

            “Just _what_? I don’t to just _anything_ with you! I want to get in the car and keep going!”

            “We need to talk about this—”

            “No, we really don’t—”

            “Yes, we do! Eddie, _please_ —”

            “Fuck _off_ , Denbrough—”

            “Stop it!” Mike shouts, stepping in between Eddie and Bill with a firm look on his face. Eddie’s mouth snaps shut, but he keeps his glare steadily trained on Bill, who’s looking overwhelmed with guilt and the fear that he may not be able to fix the damage he caused. Glancing between the two of them, Mike instructs, “Eddie, give Bill a chance to talk. You don’t have to like what he says, you don’t even have to forgive. Just let him speak without interrupting him, and then you can do the same. Okay?”

            Eddie shifts his glare to Mike, jaw clenching, but he doesn’t do anything other than nod. Letting out a slow breath, Mike takes a step back and looks to Bill, who audibly gulps as all the attention lands on him. “Okay,” he murmurs to himself, shaking out his hands and wiping his sweaty palms against the rough material of his jeans. “Okay, uh- I’d like to start by saying sorry. I know we fight a lot and I know we both got mad for no reason yesterday, but I crossed a line and said stuff I didn’t mean. Stuff that I- that I shouldn’t have said. I didn’t mean it, and I wish I could take it back, but I can’t.” Clearing his throat, Bill meets Eddie’s gaze and states, “I don’t deserve to be forgiven for that, I know, but I just… I really, really hope this doesn’t ruin us, Eddie. I can’t imagine life without you in it. You’re… you’re my best friend, okay? And I- I know you care about Richie- I mean, we all do, but I know you love him in a different way than you love us, and I shouldn’t have- I shouldn’t have used that against you. And I definitely shouldn’t have tried to blame you for something that isn’t even remotely your fault.”

            A heavy silence falls over them, and Eddie takes a moment to realize how ridiculous they must look, huddled together in the parking lot of the run down motel they stayed in last night, skin slick with sweat from the hot summer’s sun. To an outsider, they’d look like a regular group of crazy, hormonal teens on a road trip, but that’s not what they are. No, they’re the losers, and they’re missing the seventh member of their group, and they’re hurting, and nothing is okay.

            Hoarsely, Bill says, “That’s all I wanted to say. Just… I’m sorry. I’m so, so fucking sorry.”

            Mike looks at Eddie, careful to keep his features neutral. “It’s your turn, Eddie. Say what you want to say.”

            Oh, Eddie has _plenty_ to say, none of it very kind, but then he sees the way Bill tenses, already expecting the worst, and he can’t bring himself to utter the list of foul words in his mind. Instead, he releases a slow sigh, bringing up a hand to dig his fingers into his temple, hoping it’ll help rid him of the headache throbbing within his skull. “You didn’t ruin us,” he settles on after a few long moments of thought. Bill blinks, shocked, and Eddie goes on. “I mean, what you said… fuck, that _hurt_ , Billy. Like, it hurt more than reading Richie’s fucking letter, because I…” He trails off, trying to figure out how to word the mess of emotion in his mind. Shaking his head, he decides on saying, “Last night, you said I didn’t notice anything was wrong, but that’s not true. I _did_ notice, Bill. I could see that something was wrong for _months_ , and I- I tried so fucking hard to get Richie to talk to me about it, I swear I did, but he wouldn’t budge. He’s stubborn, sometimes more stubborn than I am, and I thought he just wasn’t ready to talk about it yet. So, I gave him some space, waiting for him to tell me what was going on.” Embarrassingly, there are tears forming in Eddie’s eyes. He lets out a wet, humorless laugh. “And I thought he was going to, I really did, because he started getting clingy. He always gets clingy when he’s getting ready to admit to something. I was so- so fucking sure that he was about to open up to me, but then…” The words _he left_ hang ominously in the air. Gently, Beverly places a comforting hand on his arm, but he doesn’t react to it. He doesn’t to anything but suck in deep, harsh breaths. “The point is,” he concludes, “I knew something was wrong. I could have stopped this if I was smart enough to figure out what he was planning to do. So, yeah, what you said hurt like a bitch, but not because I’m in love with the idiot. They hurt because they were true.”

            “No, they weren’t,” Bill insists, taking a small step forward and shaking his head. “I wasn’t right when I said that, Eddie. You didn’t cause this, it isn’t your fault—”

            “Can we go now?” Eddie asks loudly, avoiding everyone else’s worried eyes as he averts his own to the ground. He fidgets uncomfortably, his weakly pieced together exterior beginning to crumble, and grits out, “I don’t want to talk about this anymore. We’re wasting time.”

            He doesn’t wait for a response, instead spinning around and marching to Mike’s care, hesitating only a moment before deciding to claim the backseat. He got barely any sleep last night, hours spent in a haze of guilt and anger and dread; the least he can do is take a nap for a few hours before being trusted with the map or behind the wheel. Silently, the rest of the losers share a look, sigh, and wordlessly shuffle into their respective vehicles.

 

 

 

 

            On his first full day in Olympia, Richie goes on a job hunt. It’s not that he doesn’t want to take up the offer given to him by Betty and Anne – quite the opposite, really – but he wants to see his choices before signing his life away to two old lesbians who need a janitor, or whatever the fuck they want him to do. He spends the whole time going in and out of businesses, asking about what positions are open and what he can do to pursue getting a job, only to be shut down time and time again when he’s unable to give an official address of residence or offer up his birth certificate or social security card.

            He didn’t think to snatch those before leaving Derry, which means he’s thoroughly fucked over and left with no other options.

            When he pushes open the front door of the motel, his shoulders are hunched and his body feels heavy, eyelids drooping, hair a mess. He catches a glimpse of his reflection in the window and suppresses the urge to grimace at what he sees, and he suddenly realizes that maybe employers turned him away because he looks like some kind of junkie looking for money to chase his next high rather than someone willing to work his ass off to distract himself from the constant hollow feeling in his chest. Letting out a sigh, he makes his way to the front desk, only faltering slightly when he sees that it isn’t Betty or Anne sitting behind it, but pushes on despite the discomfort itching the back of his throat. He clears his throat to get the stranger’s attention, meekly murmuring, “Uh, ‘scuse me?”

            The person, a man who looks to be older than him but not quite as old as Anne and Betty, looks away from the paperwork on the desk to eye Richie curiously. “May I help you?”

            “Yeah, uh—” Richie cuts off, shifting awkwardly under the man’s clearly uninterested and cold gaze. “Is, um- is Betty here? Or Anne?” The man quirks an eyebrow and offers no response, leading Richie to stutter, “I- I, uh- they said to- to ask for them, so—”

            “Bets!” the man suddenly shouts over his shoulder, making Richie jump with the unexpected volume. He scrutinizes Richie slowly, uncertainly, until Betty emerged from the door behind the desk and he tells her, “Some boy’s here to see you.”

            Confused, Betty looks over to Richie and immediately lights up, her features both excited and knowing. Unsure of what else to do, Richie lifts a hand to wave, much to the apparent amusement of the strange man, who lets out a low snort in response. Giving the man an unamused glance, Betty gestures behind her and says, “Follow me. We can talk in private.”

            “Gladly,” Richie mumbles, gratefully being lead away from the uncomfortable eyes of the stranger behind the desk. Betty guides him through the doorway she came from and into what looks to be some kind of breakroom, tables pushed against the walls and a calendar pinned to a corkboard. Richie slows, expecting them to take a seat at one of the various tables, but Betty keeps going, leading him through a second doorway, down a short hallway, and into an average sized kitchen.

            “Have a seat,” Betty instructs, pointing to a round table placed in the center of the room. Silently, Richie follows her orders, sliding into one of the empty chairs as he looks around him, taking in his surroundings slowly. The kitchen isn’t much, not particularly grand or spectacular, but it’s cozy and comfortable in a way that puts his mind at ease, if only a little bit. He thinks it’s similar to the comfort he feels in his own car, only in here there’s no remnants of his friends, of his life before now, so there’s no twinge of guilt or heaviness in these walls. It’s nice, in a way. “Do you like tea or coffee?”

            Richie looks over to Betty, who apparently pulled down two mugs while he was glancing around. “What?”

            Looking amused, Betty holds up the mugs and repeats, “Tea or coffee?”

            “Um.” Richie shrugs. “Either’s fine. Whatever you’re making for yourself, I guess.”

            “Coffee it is,” she states, spinning around to place the mugs on the countertop. As she grab the pot from the coffee maker, she tells him, “But if Anne asks, we had tea. She gets worried when I have too much caffeine.” She chuckles as she says this, but Richie isn’t sure what to say, so he doesn’t respond, instead clasping his hands in his lap and waiting patiently, knee bouncing from nerves as he does so. Betty looks over her shoulder at his silence, brows pinched together. “What, not much of a talker? Shame, you seemed like a chatterbox yesterday.”

            Letting out a slow breath, Richie murmurs, “I can be, just… haven’t felt really talkative lately.” He doesn’t tell her that he has no one to talk to anymore; that, before yesterday, he hadn’t uttered a single word in over a week. Speaking feels so meaningless now that he’s not talking to the people he loves, but even when his throat is raw and his voice is rough, he repeats to himself that he’s doing the right thing, that he made the right choice, that he can’t go back.

            Betty sits across from Richie and slides one of the mugs his way, which he accepts with a grateful murmur of thanks. Curiously, she leans back in her seat, takes a long sip of her coffee, and then asks, “Why’s that?”

            “No reason,” Richie blatantly lies, chasing the heavy feeling on his tongue away with the bitter taste of his own coffee. He waits until the scorching liquid has burned its way down his throat before saying, “I wanted to talk about that job offer. I, uh- I want to do it. If you still want me, I mean.”

            “I figured that much,” Betty muses, tapping the pads of her fingers against her mug absentmindedly. When Richie doesn’t speak up, she sighs, setting her coffee down and leaning forward to rest her elbows on the table. “Listen,” she starts softly, tenderly. Richie stiffens, recognizing the pity in her voice. “You’ve obviously been through a lot recently, and as much as I’d love to know the story for how you ended up here, these are the facts: you need a place to stay, you need a job, and we’re able to offer you both. However, you have to put in the effort to earn it. That means proper hygiene,” she looks pointedly to the greasy mess of frizzed curls atop his head, “and being able to push past whatever funk you’re in to be able to hold a conversation with both customers and co-workers. Can you promise me that much?”

            Richie raises a hand to tug on one of his curls shamefully, suddenly wishing he’d taken a shower last night like he wanted to instead of passing out on the bed. Sucking in a harsh breath, he lets his arm fall to the table and nods. “Yeah, I can do that. Promise.”

 

 

 

 

            The next two days are quiet and tense for Eddie, who does all of the driving and navigating that he can but can’t bring himself to confront his inner turmoil. There are bigger problems than he own, he thinks – like the fact that they crossed the Washington border an hour ago and will be in Western Washington by nightfall, where they’ll start searching for Richie in the morning. That’s something to keep his focus on, something to put his energy into, but with how clogged his head has been since his fight with Bill, he doesn’t have much energy at all.

            Which is why, when they stop at a gas station to fill their tanks and restock on snacks, he pulls Stan to the side and asks, “Do you mind switching cars with Bill until we get to the hotel?” Stan looks surprised by the request and looks over his shoulder warily, leading Eddie to quickly explain, “I just want to talk to him about what happened but I don’t want to slow us down by doing it here. I promise it won’t get ugly. I’m too tired for another argument, anyway.”

            With a sigh, Stan nods and murmurs, “Yeah, okay. I’ll go tell him we’re switching.”

            “You’re the best, Stanny,” Eddie says as Stan walks away, letting out a soft, tired chuckle when Stan flips him off without looking back.

            As it turns out, Eddie isn’t as prepared to talk this out as he thought he was, for the car side is silent and awkward when they get back on the road. He keeps his eyes trained to the map, only mumbling instructions to Mike when necessary, and occasionally glances in the rearview mirror to see Bill shuffling nervously in the back seat. It’s like this for nearly an hour, until Mike lets out a huff and states, “Okay, that’s it. You wanted to talk to him, Eddie. So, start talking, before I kick both of you out of this damn car.”

            Looking like a deer caught in the headlights, Bill stutters out, “N-No, it’s fine t-take your time—”

            “No, he’s right,” Eddie breathes, letting his eyes flutter shut and taking a slow, deep breath to slow his heartrate. He sets the map down in his lap and twists around until he can meet Bill’s gaze head-on. “I’m tired of being upset,” he starts, unable to decide between clenching his jaw or relaxing it. “But I can’t just let this go yet, okay? I need… I need to talk about it. I need some things explained, from both you and me. Is that okay?”

            Bill was already nodding way before Eddie finished talking, looking desperate to patch up the holes in their friendship that he’s responsible for. “Yeah, of course!”

            Even with the nauseating roll of his stomach, Eddie can’t help but to smile slightly at the excitement in Bill’s voice. He can get angry, sure, and he can say things that hurt to hear, but he’s a kind soul who always means the best. That’s why Eddie loves him, and that’s why Eddie wants to be over this; he wants to go back to being able to look at Bill without tasting something bitter and painful at the back of his throat. “Okay,” he says, turning back around to glance between the map and the road ahead of them. He’s still the navigator, and the taste isn’t gone quite yet. “So, for starters, I want to know what you meant and what you didn’t. And you can’t tell me nothing you said was true, because I saw it in your eyes, Billy. You believed some of it.”

            At first, Bill makes a noise of protest, but it quickly dwindles into a low sigh as he realizes that Eddie won’t let him get away with denying. “Some of it, yeah,” he admits quietly, sounding ashamed of himself. “I… I believe that, if anyone could have stopped him, it’s you, but that doesn’t mean it was your responsibility to. Richie, he’s… he’s a stubborn little shit, just like you are, and he had his mind set on this. You could have stopped if you knew, sure, but it’s not your fault that you didn’t. None of us could have guessed what he was planning to do. If it’s your fault that he left, then it’s also mine, and Mike’s, and all of ours, because no one realized what was going on. But it’s not our fault, and it isn’t yours, either.” The way that Bill insists this, his voice soft and sincere, makes Eddie’s eyes water just slightly.

            “Did you—” Eddie cuts off, clearing his throat when he feels his words starting to get caught. “Did you mean anything else you said? And be honest, Bill.”

            “I didn’t,” Bill promises, shaking his head firmly. “The rest of the shit I said was a lie. I was mad and tired and I didn’t mean any of it.”

            “I know,” Eddie murmurs, smiling slightly once again. “It’s okay.”

            Sounding offended, Bill firmly states, “No, Eddie, it’s not okay. I know I didn’t mean what I said, but that doesn’t make it okay. You shouldn’t have been told that at all.”

            From the driver’s seat, Mike lets out something akin to an appreciative hum, nodding along to Bill’s words. “He’s right,” he agrees, glancing towards Eddie before training his eyes back on the road. “If you think it’s your fault, that means it’s our fault, too. Can’t blame yourself unless you’re willing to blame us all. And even if it was somehow your fault, that doesn’t make it okay for you to be treated like that.”

            “Oh, fuck off,” Eddie groans, though his heart picks up speed at their sentiments, and he’s consumed by a full-body warmth, radiating love for his friends. “This wasn’t supposed to be you two getting all gushy with me! I was supposed to be in control of the gushiness, you pricks!”

            Mike lets out a surprised laugh at Eddie’s outburst, which causes Eddie to quickly dissolve into a fit of giggles. Looking hopeful, Bill lets out a few low chuckles before timidly asking, “So… are we okay?”

            Laughter subsiding, Eddie throws Bill a grin over his shoulder and says, “Yeah, Billy. We’re okay.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is,,,two days late? one and a half? i don't know, but i'm sORRY
> 
> my laptop fucked off to a dimension where it didn't want to work and it took forever to get it to work again fricK
> 
> but!!! here's part two!!!
> 
> (also: there is a moodboard that i made for part two, but i ran out of data and my school's wifi has tumblr blocked so i can't make the tumblr post until i get home/get to the bank to deposit my check and refill my minutes for the month. keep an eyes out, tho!! it'll be posted asap!!)

            “I made the right choice,” Richie whispers to himself, the same mantra that he’s been repeating in his head since his breakdown on the outskirts of Everton. There’s a cigarette hanging from his lips, not lit yet, but it will be once he gets the energy to open his window. On the table by the bed is a wilting bouquet of lilies, his mothers favorite flower, and he knows he’ll have to go out to buy more soon to replace those. Or he could let them die, throw them away, and move on.

            A shiver runs down his spine. He’ll go to the flower shop down the street tomorrow. Andres will be expecting him soon, anyway. A loyal customer is almost a friend.

            “I did the right thing,” he goes on hoarsely, eyes shut and chapped lips trembling slightly. His heart feels heavy in his chest, beating loudly and out of rhythm, no doubt struggling to keep his body up and running due to how little he takes care of himself. Sure, he stays on top of his hygiene, as Betty had asked him to, but he can’t for the life of him remember the last time he ate anything other than shitty snacks from the gas station across the street from the flower shop, or the last time he slept more than two hours at a time. He smokes about a pack of cigarettes a day at this point, seeking comfort in the way the nicotine sticks to his clothes, covering him like a blanket – a blanket that he used to despise, but now he smells his shirt and thinks of his dad, and maybe it isn’t so bad after all.

            It’s come to his attention that he’s actively avoiding anything that will remind him of the losers, even though he’s had plenty of chances to. Even the smallest hint of his friends will send him over the edge. It’s easier, really, acting like he doesn’t see the same stuffed animal he gave Eddie for his birthday in the store, or pretending that the redhead on the other side of the street didn’t look exactly like Beverly when he glanced at her. Just… faking it all. It hurts less that way.

            “I can’t go back.” The final declaration of his internal motto. The most painful one, too. He can never manage to choke it out without his eyes watering, his voice getting caught in his throat as it begins to close, breath locked in his lungs and begging for a release that he can’t grant. It hurts, knowing that he can never take back this choice he made. Knowing that the minute he left Derry, that was it – there was no way he could reverse it then, and there’s no way he can reverse it now.

            A gentle knock sounds from the door, and he hastily sits up in his bed, unlit cigarette falling from his parted lips as he turns to check the time. He isn’t supposed to be downstairs for another hour. Then why…?

            “Richie, we need to talk,” a voice calls through the door, knocking again, and he quickly identifies it as Anne. Picking up the cigarette to tuck it behind his ear, he pushes himself to his feet and makes his way over to open the door, offering a tight-lipped smile in greeting as he steps back to let her in. Returning his smile with a more genuine one, Anne makes her way inside, glancing around briefly with a soft sigh before perching on the edge of the bed.

            Confused, Richie closes the door and follows after her, sitting to her left and clasping his hands together. “What, uh… what’s going on? Did I do something wrong?”

            Looking alarmed, Anne meets his gaze and quickly shakes her head, reaching forward to place a hand over his shaking ones. “No,” she assures softly – over the past month, she’s become quite fond of Richie, behaving much differently than she did the first time they met. Her and Betty both treat him like family, almost like a son. “You haven’t done anything wrong, I promise.” He isn’t convinced by this, but he lets out a slow breath and nods, waiting. After a moment of silence, she goes on. “Betty wanted to be here for this, but she had to go down to the bank, so it’s just me, and you know how bad I am with words, so just… bear with me, okay?”

            Richie gnaws on his lower lip, anxiety eating away at his stomach. “Okay.”

            “We’re worried, Richie,” is how Anne starts, making him blink in surprise, lips parting but unable to form the questions he wants to ask, so instead he says nothing. “Don’t get me wrong, you do your job well and we love having you here, but… you aren’t happy, Richie. We can see it.” The way she says this, her tone guilty as if it’s her fault, makes his heart ache. “We just— we want you to know that you don’t have to stay here. If you’re not happy here, you can go. We want what’s best for you, always.”

            He loves his parents, that Richie knows, but not in the way a son should. What he feels for Betty and Anne is much closer, he thinks. “I like being here,” he tells her, trying not to sound as choked up as he feels. “I just… I left a lot of things behind when I left, a lot of people, and I miss them, but… but that’s just something I have to deal with.” Then, with a heavy feeling in his chest, he promises, “I don’t want to leave. I just wish I could see them again, but I can’t, and, eventually, I’ll be fine.”

            And, not for the first time since he’s gotten here, the lie goes undetected.

 

 

 

 

            .

            It’s a fairly recent polaroid, one taken in the dim lighting of Eddie’s room after the sun had set, when the two of them were struggling to stifle their laughter in their palms in order to avoid awakening Sonia from where she slept downstairs. When Eddie picked up the camera to take the picture, Richie had still been giggling, his cheeks dimpled with a wide smile, crinkles around his eyes amplified by the lenses of his glasses as they slipped down his nose, skin glimmering with the slight sheen of sweat that formed from being huddled under the blankets for so long. Eddie can vividly remember the flash going off, the way Richie blinked once in surprise, his giggles tapering off and his grin fading into a fond smile, and the tone of his voice when he asked, “What’s the picture for, Eds?”

            At the time, Eddie flushed, realizing that he had no real excuse for taking the photograph, and quickly teased, “When I finally get rid of you, I’ll need something to show my kids. That way they know what Crazy Richie looks like and will steer clear of you.” It wasn’t a good reason, not at all believable, but Richie just started laughing again and took the camera to return the favor.

            Now, when Eddie holds it in his hand, his fingers tremble and make it shake slightly. He pushes past it, though, and holds it up, turns it around, so the lady in front of him can see it. “Have you seen this guy anywhere?” he asks, trying to keep his voice steady, but this is the hundredth person he’s asked today, and judging by the pity in her eyes he isn’t gonna get the answer he wants, so it’s hard to remain put together when all he wants to do is fall apart.

            As expected, she shakes her head. “I’m sorry,” she says, and she sounds like she means it, but Eddie couldn’t care less about her sympathy. He just wants Richie. “I hope you find him, soon.”

            “So do I,” he murmurs, and offers some semblance of a smile. “Thank you anyway.”

            It’s been two months since Richie left, and one month since the losers fled Derry to start looking for him. So far, they’ve been to seven different towns and have had absolutely no luck. They’re not giving up, absolutely not, they’re just… a little disheartened, maybe even crestfallen, definitely disappointed.

            When he trudges into their motel room, shoulders hunched and lips turned down in a grimace, Beverly softly questions, “Any luck?”

            “No,” he sighs, collapsing onto the bed next to where she’s sitting, letting his muscles melt into the mattress. “You?”

            Solemnly, she shakes her head, running a hand through his hair to help him relax. “Me neither.”

            Eddie sniffs once, pushing away the urge to cry, and leans into her touch, seeking comfort from whatever he can. “Is anyone else back yet?”

            “Just us so far,” Beverly answers. “The others should be back any minute, though.”

            Just as she says this, the door to their room opens and Ben, Mike, and Bill make their way in, looking just as dejected as Eddie feels, and they don’t even have to ask to know how their days went. “This is exhausting,” Bill murmurs, tossing his room key onto the table and leaning heavily against the wall. He scrubs a hand over his features tiredly, shakes his head. “I feel like I’m gonna fucking collapse.”

            “Just don’t hit your head on the way down,” Mike states, yawning into the palm of his hand. “We don’t have time for a hospital visit. Gotta leave in the morning to get to… what’s next? Redmond?”

            “Renton,” Ben corrects, blinking slowly as he looks around the room, carefully making his way over to sit on Beverly’s other side. “We’re in Redmond right now. Renton is next.”

            Eddie hums. “No, it’s Issaquah, then Renton, then SeaTac, Kent, Federal Way, Tacoma, Lakewood… no, wait, it’s Puyallup, then Lakewood, Olympia, Tumwater— well, you get the gist. Keep going west, up north to Keyport, then back down to Belfair, around the Puget Sound, all the way over to Neah Bay before heading back south to go through Oregon, then California.”

            Sounding impressed, Bill muses, “You have it memorized?”

            “Yeah,” Eddie shrugs. “Can’t sleep that much, so I look at the maps and cross out towns I know he won’t be at. Like Snoqualmie, for example, and North Bend. We would be heading there first, but they’re too far inland. Richie likes the beach. He’d prefer California beaches, but that’s too predictable, so I’m guessing that, if he’s in Washington, he’s not too far from the water.”

            Everyone looks at him, not surprised by how much thought he’s put into this, but rather sympathetic over how much time and energy he’s spent. Before anyone can speak, though, there’s a loud thump from the hallway, followed by a muffled curse from a voice that they can instantly recognize as Stan’s. Sharing a quick look of confusion, Beverly and Eddie get to their feet and make a dash for the door, pulling it open to reveal Stan sitting on the other side, his head pressed between his knees, shoulders shaking as sobs rack his entire body.

            “Oh, god, Stanny,” Eddie breathes, instantly kneeling beside him and placing a hand on his shoulder, not sure if he should draw him into a hug or not. “What’s wrong? What happened?”

            Heaving in a heavy, loud breath, Stan begins to shake his head, hoarsely saying, “Someone recognized him. They recognized Richie.”

            The world freezes over and catches on fire simultaneously. Eddie tightens his grip on Stan’s shoulder and croaks out, “What?”

            “They recognized the picture!” Stan repeats through a shout, lifting his head to look Eddie in the eyes. His features aren’t crestfallen, as Eddie expected – they’re hopeful. Stan is crying tears of joy. “He was here, and he stopped by a gas station over on the edge of town on his way out. He left, but he was _here_ , guys. He was _here_.”

 

 

 

 

            The day that Richie breaks is not a good one.

            It starts normal, with him lounging around his room until it’s time to start his shift at the front desk. When the time comes, he slips on a simple white button up and the black vest that he’s required to wear on the job and makes his way downstairs, nodding a greeting to Daniel, the man from before that he had been so uncomfortable around. Daniel is alright, now that Richie’s gotten to know them – kind of reminds him of Stan, with his crass personality and sharp words paired with a soft spoken voice and overall uptight attitude. But Richie doesn’t want to be reminded of his friends, so he usually shoves the thought away.

            Today, however, the thought is persistent. Even after Daniel leaves, Richie can’t help but notice all the parallels between them, the similar way they dress, even the way they style their hair and the interests that they have. The resemblance is so loud in his mind that it makes his skin itch, and he can’t sit still, not even when he helps customers with getting rooms for a night or two, not even when Daniel comes back to let him go to his lunch break. He gratefully takes up the chance to leave, immediately going to the back of the building and smoking cigarette after cigarette, hoping and praying that every drop if nicotine in his blood may rinse his mind of all the things he doesn’t want to remember. But then he smells the cigarette smoke and he can hear Eddie’s voice in the back of his mind, telling him the dangers of secondhand smoke. “It could kill you!” Eddie had told him, genuinely concerned. “Your dad is great, don’t get me wrong, but being around that much smoking could give you cancer. You could _die_ , Richie.”

            “Dying would be better than this, Eds,” Richie whispers to himself in the shadow of the motel, his twelfth cigarette a glowing stub between his lips. He takes it between two fingers, flicks away the loose ashes, and puts it back despite the fact that it might burn him if he doesn’t put it out soon. The burn might do him some good. Clear his head a bit. Make it easier to shake his mind free of these thoughts.

            It works for a little bit, but not long enough.

            By the time he rounds the motel and makes his way upstairs to start cleaning out rooms for the second half of his work day, the thoughts are already coming back with a vengeance. It’s small things, like the way that the clean sheets have the same scent of fabric softener as the ones in Bill’s guest room. Or the fact that the pillows are just as soft at the one Beverly stored at his house for those nights she snuck in to get away from her dad. Or how the song that comes on the radio when he turns it up to drown out the silence is one of Mike’s favorite songs. Or how the curtains are the same exact shade of Ben’s hair. It never fucking ends.

            He starts tearing up in the middle of making one of the beds on the third floor, his trembling hands struggling to smooth out the fabric of the duvet. He doesn’t react to it. The first tear falls as he’s emptying out the trash cans. He doesn’t react to it.

            A horrible, ugly sob rips its way out of his raw throat as he closes the door. He goes to the next room and cleans it.

            And the cycle continues.

            He doesn’t even watch the clock, not having a care in the world toward what time it is or when his shift is over; he just keeps cleaning, one room after the other, until his hands are aching and raw and his throat burns from struggling to hold back so many cries. As it turns out, though, he ends up working far longer than he’s supposed to, because it’s nearly midnight when someone comes to check on him, and poor Betty finds him weeping.

            Perhaps it’s the heartache, or perhaps it’s the lack of sleep, food, and water, but Richie is completely out of it, his vision blurry and his mind filled with fog. It feels like he’s drunk when Betty places a hand on his shoulder and gently coos, “What’s wrong, Richie? What’s going on?”

            He tries to answer, he really does, but all that comes out is another choked sob that sounds like it could have been words if he had any semblance of control over himself. Faintly, he hearts Betty call for Anne, and maybe he blacks out for a bit because the next thing he knows, he’s being lead into his room and guided slowly onto the bed. By this point, his chest is burning, his eyes are raw, and all he can manage to get out is a whispered, “I miss them. I’m sorry.”

 

 

 

 

            “No luck in Tacoma,” Eddie murmurs to himself, scribbling names off the map as he speaks, “or Puyallup, and we left Lakewood two hours ago with nothing.” He sighs, setting the pen down and smoothing the map out in his lap to get a better look at it. Every place they’ve been so far has been crossed out, save for Redmond, which has a single question mark written over it to show that someone there had recognized Richie’s picture. “Next up is Olympia.”

            Stan hums from the driver’s seat, Mike napping soundly in the back, and asks, “Which way?”

            Glancing up, Eddie looks at the nearest road sign and then goes back to scanning the map, trailing over it with the tip of his finger until he’s able to locate their exact location. “Take a left at the next stoplight,” he instructs. “Then we go straight for a while, then another left. Olympia is only another twenty minutes away, if traffic is light.”

            “Looks nonexistent, so I’d say fifteen,” Stan muses, scanning the road around them quickly before focusing on where he’s going, taking the next left as he was told. “If I speed, maybe ten.”

            From the back, Mike’s groggy voice speaks up to say, “No speeding, Stanley. We talked about this.”

            Rolling his eyes, Stan murmurs, “Yeah, yeah, I know. Can’t risking getting pulled over.” With a louder tone, he points out, “I’m just saying, it’d get us there faster!”

            “Not happening,” Mike and Eddie state simultaneously.

            The drive is, as expected, fairly short, and they reach Olympia just before noon. Looking around, Eddie starts to weigh the pros and cons of the place, trying to think of how Richie would see it, and finds himself nodding as he does so. “It’s not small enough to be a town,” he says aloud, partly so that Stan and Mike can be aware of his observations, but mostly to help him sort through his thought process. “But it’s not really a city, either. I think Richie would have found that appealing.”

            “Is there a hotel near the middle?” Mike asks, hoisting himself into a sitting position and stifling a yawn as he leans forward to gaze at the map over Eddie’s shoulder. “It’s easier to search everything if we’re camped in the center.”

            “There’s a lot of hotels, actually,” Eddie observes as he looks back down at the map. “Looks like a lot of locally owned places. But yeah, there’s one pretty close to center. Take the next right, Stan, and it’ll be down that road.”

            Stan does as instructed, glancing at the rearview mirror to make sure the others are still behind them in Bill’s car, and then pulls into the parking lot for the hotel. He puts the car in park and takes out the key, handing it to Mike as soon as the engine’s off, and climbs out of the vehicle. Eddie and Mike quickly follow suit, stretching their limbs out and taking in deep breaths of fresh air. By this point, they’re well accustomed to being in a car for long periods of time, but that doesn’t make it any less relieving when they finally get to escape the tight confinement of those vehicles.

            “First thing’s first,” Bill announces as he joins the small group, Beverly currently shaking Ben awake in his car. “I say we get lunch. I’m fucking starving.”

            Frowning, Eddie shakes his head. “I dunno, Billy, I kind of want to just start looking. This place looks like somewhere he would have liked to stay, I think—”

            “We can stop at places and ask them on the way,” Bill promises, his features understanding. He places a hand on Eddie’s shoulder comfortingly. “And wherever we choose to go, we’ll ask there, too. But we can’t put off eating, you know that.” Then, gently, he asks, “When _is_ the last time you ate, Eddie?”

            Eddie blinks, shrugging off Bill’s hand. “Not that long ago, I don’t think,” he answers, tasting the lie on his tongue. He had a bag of chips in Lakewood, at some point. Nothing since then. “Let’s just— let’s just go. Lunch, or whatever. We can’t waste time, so let’s _go_.”

 

 

 

 

            When Richie wakes up, he feels like he has some kind of hangover. His head has a blinding, searing pain and opening his eyes is a struggle that he thinks may not be worth it. But then he feels a cool, damp cloth being pressed to his head, and a hand gently running through his hair, and in his half-asleep brain, he thinks he’s seventeen.

            It was just a cold bordering on the sidelines of the flu, he knows now, but at the time it felt like death, clogging up his sinuses and making his body feel weak. He couldn’t lift a hand without it trembling, could barely even speak through the raw aching in his throat. It was a sickness that lasted two weeks.

            Every day, Eddie visited him.

            It was Maggie that did her best to take care of him, but she never really understood her child, never knew how to offer comfort the way his friends did, and when Eddie came by, those were the times that he felt like he was actually getting better. And if he was too weak to be able to interact while Eddie visited, then Eddie would use touch to offer comfort, running fingers through his sweat-damn hair, using a damp cloth to cool him off when his fever spiked higher and higher. And if Richie was to wake up while Eddie did this, he’d say—

            “Eds?”

            The hand in his hair comes to a stop. It’s silent, but the silence is deafening. Then, in a voice so soft that it’s almost painful to hear, Anne says, “No, sweetheart. It’s not him.”

            It’s not him.

            _It’s not him._

            Tears start rolling down his cheeks before he’s even bothered to comprehend the rest of the world around him, all the pain from before washing over him in wave after agonizing wave. Once he’s managed to finally open his eyes, vision blurry from both sleep and tears, he finds both Anne and Betty sitting by his bed, their features pinched together in worry. Looking up at them, feeling like a child, he meekly asks, “It’s not him?”

            “No, honey, it’s not,” Betty murmurs, and she withdraws her hand from his hair to gently wipe at his cheeks, shaking her head, her own eyes glimmering from seeing him in such a bad state. “It’s us, remember? You’re here, in Washington. You’re not with your friends.”

            “I remember,” he whispers hoarsely, sniffling sadly. “I just— I—”

            “You miss them,” Anne finishes. Wordlessly, he nods, leaning into Betty’s hand for comfort, seeking the warmth of her touch. There’s a few moments of silence where Anne keeps dabbing at his forehead with the damp cloth, and he feels coddled, like some kind of baby, but it’s nice, in an odd sort of way. Eventually, Anne speaks up again. “Tell us about your friends, Richie.”

            Weakly, he blinks up at her, unsure if she’s being serious or not. When nothing happens, he realizes that she’s genuinely asking. “What, uh… what do you want to know?”

            “Everything,” Anne states simply.

            With a smile, Betty adds, “How you met, what you like about them, their favorite things… why you left.” Richie winces at the last one, causing her to hastily add, “Only if you want. Whatever you’re comfortable with.”

            At first, he wants to protest, to outright refuse their request, but what he ends up saying is, “Okay.” He shuffles slightly, pushing himself up until he’s leaning against the headboard of his bed rather than laying down. Betty and Anne share quick look, one that he can’t read, and then turn to him expectantly. Sucking in a slow, harsh breath, he starts with, “I met Stan first, when I was five…”

 

 

 

 

            The corners of the polaroid are bent from being held so much, warn and weak but still holding on. Like a photo well loved, Eddie thinks, and it is. He loves this damn picture, almost as much as he loves Richie himself.

            “I’ll take the restaurant,” he announces to the losers, pointing across the street. He doesn’t wait to hear their response before checking to make sure no cars are coming and then making his way across the road, gripping the polaroid of Richie tightly in his hand to make sure he doesn’t drop it. Behind him, he can hear the others discussing who’s gonna go where, but he doesn’t care about where they go – he has his own destination is mind, and he can only focus on that.

            The bell above the door jingles when he pushes it open, alerting the woman behind the counter of his presence. There’s a pleasant chatter floating around the room, environment warm and welcoming, and the worker smiles at him as he approaches. “Good morning, sir! How can I help you today?”

            Eddie tries to return the smile, but he can barely manage to get his lips to twitch up. “I was just, uh- I was wondering,” he lifts the picture of Richie and turns it around so that the lady can see it, “have you seen this guy around at all? Maybe last month, or recently, or just— whenever.” He’s already deflating when she doesn’t immediately respond, expecting another sympathetic _no,_ _sorry._

            Instead, though, the woman hums and reaches forward. “May I?” Shocked, Eddie complies, handing over the polaroid so that she can take a closer look. She takes a long moment to examine it, tilting it one way and then another, and then she nods. “Yeah, I think— I think so? I mean, he looked different when he came in, a lot paler and tired. Looked like he hadn’t taken a shower in a while, but yeah, that’s definitely him.”

            “Really?” Eddie asks, his heart skipping a beat in his chest. “When did he come in?”

            “A little over a month ago, I think it was,” she answers calmly, either ignoring or not noticing the way tears spring to his eyes. “He asked if there were any jobs available. Poor guy looked like hell, and I wanted to give him some good news, but all our positions were filled at the time. I had to send him away.”

            Eddie’s breath gets caught in his throat. “A— A job? He was looking for a job?”

            She nods again, handing the picture back to Eddie. “Yeah. Seemed pretty desperate, too. Like I said, I wanted to help him out, but I couldn’t.” Meeting his gaze, she smiles. “I haven’t seen him since, but I’m sure he’s still around Olympia somewhere. He didn’t look like he wanted to leave.”

            “Thank you so much,” he stammers out, already stumbling back towards the door. “Seriously, you have no— no clue how much this means to me— _fuck_ , just— thank you!”

            He’s out the door before she can even think of a response.

 

 

 

 

            “We were in kindergarten, and I was late to the first day because my dad slept in. I was the only one who didn’t have a parent escort me into class, he just dropped me off and sped away because he’d already missed an hour of work. Took me twenty minutes just to figure out where to go, and by then the whole class knew each other and had already decided who their friends were. I ended up sitting all alone in the corner of the room, and Stan… I dunno why, but he came over and sat with me, and we’ve just been inseparable ever since.

            “Bill was already friends with Eddie when we met him, but Eddie’s mom didn’t let him go to school until fourth grade, so I always heard about him, but I actually met him last. Everyone else would visit him and stuff, but I guess his mom hates my mom for whatever reason, and whenever I tried to go with the other’s to meet him, she wouldn’t let me in. I wasn’t old enough to think about sneaking in yet, so it just didn’t happen. But, anyway, uh— Bill, he was in the other kindergarten class, but he was switched over in first grade. That’s when I became friends with him.

            “I always knew Beverly, ‘cause she lived down the street from me, but after her mom died and her dad moved them into their shitty apartment towards the end of first grade, she started talking to me more and asking if she could come over because she liked playing on our street more than her new place. She was a badass, even back then, but she was quiet at first. Didn’t open up to us for about a year or two, not until her dad started treating her bad, and then she basically moved in with me because of how often she stayed at my house. Even after I started sneaking into Eddie’s room to hang out with him, she would just sleep in my bed and wait until I got back before telling me about whatever bullshit her dad pulled the day before. She’s, like, my sister. I think my parents preferred her over me. I mean, Eddie was their favorite out of all my friends, but they loved Bev. Like, _really_ loved her, the way you’re supposed to love a child.

            “Ben and Mike were both new kids in second grade, but only Ben was really _new_ to Derry. Mike’s dad was worried about how the kids would treat him, but it became clear pretty soon that they didn’t have the time or the resources to home school him, so they signed him up and he started taking attending the school. Ben moved from California, I think. He never really specified. I don’t think he liked where he lived before, so he didn’t want us to know. Bill, Stan and I, we saw how lonely and scared they looked on the first day, so we just… asked them to sit with us, and we hit it off.

            “And, like I said, the last of them that I met… Eddie.”

 

 

 

 

            The way Eddie sprints across the street is probably dangerous, if the multiple car horns blasting around him is anything to go by, but he can’t bring himself to care as he stumbles into Mike’s unexpecting arms and shouts, “He was here! I had a feeling, and I fucking knew it, and I was right! He was here!”

            Alarmed, Mike takes a step back, holding Eddie at an arms length and examining him closely. “What? What do you mean?”

            “Richie!” Eddie proclaims, joyful tears burning the corners of his eyes, and he understand why Stan had been happily sobbing back in Lakewood – more than understands it, really. “The lady at the restaurant, she said— she said he was looking for a job about a month ago. A _job_ , Mike! Do you know what that means?!” Shell shocked, Mike silently shakes his head, looking both ecstatic by the news and unsure of the implications. “If he wanted a job,” Eddie explains, “then that means he wanted to stay. That means he probably still here!” Looking around, Eddie excitedly asks, “Where are the others? I have to tell them! We have to stay here and keep looking for him!”

            “They’ll be back any second, Eddie, calm down,” Mike laughs, somewhat incredulous but just as hopeful as Eddie. Taking the picture of Richie out of Eddie’s hands, Mike scans over it and asks, “She was sure it was him?”

            Nodding enthusiastically, Eddie answers, “Yeah, she was sure. She said he looked tired and pale, but it was definitely him. She wanted to hire him but they had no positions open, so she had to send him away and she hasn’t seen him since then.”

            Mike grins, but before he can respond, Bill and Stan approach them, looking dejected. “No luck,” Bill mutters sadly.

            “It’s our third day, too,” Stan adds. “We have to leave in the morning.”

            “We’re not going anywhere, Mr. Uris,” Eddie intervenes, unable to stop himself from bouncing energetically on the balls of his feet.

            Stan looks at him, confused, but it’s Ben who asks, “What are you talking about?” as him and Beverly join the group.

            Looking around at all five of them, Eddie snatches the picture back from Mike and holds it up proudly. “Richie was at that restaurant a month ago,” he announces to all of them, using his free hand to point at the restaurant across the street, grin widening as he watches all of their eyes light up. “And he was looking for a job, which means—”

            “He wanted to stay here,” Stan finishes, lips twitching up into a smile. “If he wanted to stay, then he’s still gotta be here somewhere.”

            “Exactly,” Eddie nods, lowering his hand to slide the picture into his back pocket. “Let’s go back to the hotel and I’ll figure out every place we haven’t been yet. Then we take it one street at a time. Sound good?”

 

 

 

 

            “Eddie is… a lot of things,” Richie says, wiping away the tears that are still falling down his cheeks in a steady trickle. Betty and Anne share another look, and he wishes that he knew what the looks mean, but he doesn’t. “He’s my best friend, but not like Stan is. It’s, like… he’s my partner in crime. Ever since we first met. I can— I can remember it so _vividly_ , too, which is weird. It’s like it happened yesterday, not ten years ago.”

            Gingerly setting a hand on Richie’s knee, Betty asks, “How’d you meet him?”

            Richie blinks, focusing his gaze on her, then on Anne, then looks down at his hands. “It was, uh— the first day of fourth grade, when his mom finally stopped home schooling him. Everyone else was so excited to get to see him more, they talked about it all summer, but I still didn’t even know him. I felt left out, kind of, because all my friends knew this kid and fucking loved him and anytime I tried to go to his house with them, I was sent home by Sonia, and I didn’t even understand why. It just felt like she hated me, when really it was some petty quarrel between her and my mom that she was taking out on me. Still is, by the way. That’s why I have to—” he stops abruptly, wincing. “Um, why I had to sneak into his room when I went to see him. Anyway, uh… what was I— how we met, right! So, I walked into class on the first day, and I was the last one there because I’m always fucking late, and everyone else was crowded around this tiny little shrimp in the front row. Which, I mean— knowing him now, of _course_ he chose to sit in the front row, ‘cause he’s a fucking nerd, but whatever. Basically, I walked over and just stuck my hand out and said, ‘Richie Tozier, here to make your life better.’ I thought I was so cool back then, saying stuff like that even though I’m the lamest motherfucker out there, but Eddie, he just— he looked at my hand, looked at me, and said, ‘I’m good, thanks.’ Just like that, like it was no big deal, and any other person would have been offended, but I laughed my ass off and he laughed, too. And then I just— I sat next to him— in the front row, but the way, because he made me a fucking nerd— and it became common knowledge that, if there was an empty seat by him, I was the one to fill it.”

            By the time he’s done talking, his voice is practically a whisper from being used when his throat is still so raw from crying. Betty squeezes his knee gently while Anne takes over running a hand through his hair. It’s silent for a while, and for a moment Richie thinks they’re waiting for him to keep talking, but when he looks at them they’re looking at one another, knowing looks in their eyes. Before he can question it, they look back at him and Anne asks, “Do you wanna know how we met?”

            “Um.” Richie falters, not expecting that. “I… guess? Sure, yeah.”

            “We were nineteen,” Betty starts, her free hand reaching over to rest on Anne’s hip. Not to hold her, not to pull her closer, but just to touch, as if the simple contact with her lover is enough to satiate any negative feelings within her. Richie eyes the point of contact, a weird feeling in his chest, and only looks away when Betty goes on. “I grew up in Georgia, with parents who… well, they weren’t open-minded, to say the least. I never had to tell them I was a lesbian before they knew, and they always tried to… to _fix_ me, I suppose. They were really religious and often sent me to the church down to street to be taught about how queers were an abomination, how they all went to Hell.” She says this with an ease that only someone who’s moved on can have, which Richie admires greatly, but hearing about it still makes his stomach drop. “Frankly, I didn’t give a shit about what the church had to say. I was much more interested in how Lindsey Brown from my math class kissed me behind the school. But they didn’t give up, doing what they thought was best for me, and as soon as I graduated, I hopped on a train and made my way to the west coast. Heard that that’s where all the queers were headed.”

            Anne cuts in, smiling at Betty briefly before turning back to Richie. “I grew up in California, in San Francisco. At the time, it still wasn’t the most accepting of places, but queers walked the street with their partners all the time, risks be damned. My family was on the right side of the century, thank god, and they didn’t care who I wanted to be with, they just wanted me to be safe. You see, people get killed for being like us, even more so when I was growing up, and they were worried, you know? They had every right to be.”

            It’s a heavy topic, but the two of them tell it without even the slightest hitch in their voices. Richie wonders how they do it, wishes he could be that strong. “The train I hopped on took me to San Fran,” Betty says, her tone airy and light, almost dreamy. “I came out of the station at, what, two in the morning?”

            “One fifty-five,” Anne corrects with a hum.

            “Oh, whatever. I was five minutes off.” Betty rolls her eyes, but it’s fond, loving. “Anyway, I walked out, and Anne was one her way home from some concert, and we just… ran into each other.”

            Anne laughs. “Ran into each other? Honey, you were so busy looking behind you that you pushed me off the curb and I split my head open. There’s still a scar! The doctor said I was concussed and my parents thought it was a hate crime!”

            “Yeah, but I stole balloons for you to say sorry,” Betty defends, “and your mom loved me after she realized it was an honest-to-god accident.”

            “The point is,” Anne says loudly, a slight giggle behind her words as Betty pinches her hip teasingly. “We remember how met perfectly. Like it was yesterday. Sound familiar?”

            Richie’s brows pinch together, confused. He’s about to ask what on earth they’re talking about when his own words dawn on him, and their implications are suddenly obvious. “What— _Eddie_?!” Wordlessly, Anne nods, and Betty grabs his hand, offering comfort that he doesn’t realize he needs until she does it. “No, you’ve got it all wrong. I don’t— I mean, I’m not—”

            “You mentioned him the most,” Betty points out softly. “When you were talking about your other friends, you kept bringing him up. When you were telling us about him, you had the most to say.”

            “No—” Richie splutters, shaking his head, even as the realization weighs heavy on his shoulders. He doesn’t want to know this, not now, not when he’s already left. “That doesn’t— I _can’t_ be—”

             But he _can_ be, he knows. And now that the thought has been placed in his mind, he thinks that maybe, just maybe, he is.

 

 

 

 

            Out of all of Olympia, there’s only a few more streets that they have yet to explore. It’ll only take a couple hours to get to them all, and it’s with great reluctance that they wait until the next day to do it. Mike makes a fair argument when he points out how tired they are, but it isn’t until he says, “I don’t want to be half asleep when we find him,” that Eddie agrees to go to bed for the night.

            As soon as they’re all awake, Eddie has them shuffling out the door. Maybe he’s getting his hopes up, and maybe he’ll be let down, but he can’t help the grin on his face as they make their way to the northwest edge of the town. The first street they search leaves them empty handed, but the second has a man who nods and murmurs something about how he’s _seen a kid like that walkin’ around here sometimes._ The third street has more sightings, the fourth even more, and by the fifth Eddie can feel his heart racing in his chest.

            Him and Beverly choose to check their buildings together, not wanting to be alone when feeling this close to victory. The first place they go is the flower shop on the corner of the street, across the road from the gas station that Mike is checking. Behind the counter is a friendly looking man with a kind smile who greets them with a cheery, “Good afternoon! How may I help you on this fine Thursday?”

            “We just have a question,” Beverly says, returning the smile with one of her own. “It’ll only take a second, if you don’t mind.”

            The man looks somewhat surprised, but quickly nods. “Yeah, ‘course! What can I do for ya’?”

            Eddie holds up his polaroid, fingers trembling – for the first time in two and a half months, it’s an excited tremble, something good rather than bad – and he hands it to the man. “Have you seen this guy?”

            Instantly, recognition flashes in the man’s eyes. “Woah, is this Richie?!”

            “You know him?” Beverly questions, taking a small step forward.

            “Yeah, kinda,” the man answers, examining the picture slowly. “Damn, he looks different now. How old is this picture?”

            Swallowing roughly, Eddie tells him, “About five months old, maybe six.”

            “Really?” The man asks, looking up in shock before gazing back down at the photo with a _tsk_. “Shit, he looks at least a few years older now. I guess that’s what smoking so much does to you.

            _Smoking?_ Eddie thinks, brows pinching together as he shares a look of surprise with Beverly. They both know how much Richie hates the smell of cigarette smoke. They don’t question it, though; instead, Beverly asks, “How do you know him?”

            Handing the polaroid back to Eddie, the man says, “He’s a pretty loyal customer here. Comes in every week or so to buy some lilies, says they’re for his mom. He’s bought so much, I started giving him a family discount.”

            “Lilies are Maggie’s favorite flower,” Beverly murmurs sadly, looking at Eddie with a frown. ‘He probably buys them to remind himself of her.”

            “Probably why he started smoking, too,” Eddie sighs. He gives the man a slight smile and a quick, “Thank you,” before leading the way out of the flower shop. They cross the street to talk to Mike, who apparently found out the same amount of information – Richie buys a lot of cigarettes from the gas station, and stops at the flower shop at least once a week. “We’re close,” Eddie states firmly, jaw clenched. “I can feel it. He’s gotta be here.”

 

 

 

 

            Richie goes from denying the obvious to having a full-fledged panic attack in approximately ten seconds.

            “Oh god,” he mutters, chest heaving in with a big, shaky breath and then letting it out in some kind of high-pitched wheeze that whistles in his ears. Betty leans back, looking alarmed, as Anne abruptly stands. “Oh my _god_ , you’re— _fuck_ , oh _shit_ —”

            “Hey,” Anne soothes, placing her hands on either side of his face and forcing him to meet her gaze. “Hey, look at me. Breathe, okay? It’s alright.”

            He shakes his head wildly, desperately, and grits out, “It’s not alright, it’s— I _left!_ I’m— I’m so fucking _stupid_ , I didn’t even— didn’t even _realize_ — and then I left, and now I’m— I’m so fucking _lonely_ without them— without _him_ —”

            “Breathe with me,” Anne instructs firmly, giving him no room to fight it. “Breathe with me, and then you can talk, but you have to breathe first. Can you do that for me, Richie?” Shakily, he nods, trying to copy her as she inhales slowly and releases a long exhale one, two, three times, until his chest feels more loose and his breaths don’t whistle in the back of his throat. When she thinks he’s more stable, she asks, “Why did you leave?”

            God, Richie feels like an idiot, crying so much over something he should have gotten over weeks ago, but he can’t help it. Weakly, he tells them, “Because they were gonna leave, too.” Anne blanches, withdrawing her hands to give him some space as he tries to recollect his jumbled up thoughts. Sitting up straighter, he pulls his knees to his chest, sniffling loudly and wiping at his eyes as he does so. “My friends, they... they’re all so fucking brilliant. Like, I have no doubt that they’ll end up being successful, wealthy, living these great lives, and I’m… I’m not that. I mean, I’m smart, but I can’t focus. I can do a lot of things, but I’m not great at any of them. They’re all gonna go off to be these incredible people, and they were gonna have no choice but to leave me back in Derry by myself. I figured, y’know, if I left them, I’d only have myself to blame. I could never resent them for something I chose to do, but I could resent them for leaving me behind, and I… I’d fucking hate myself if I ever became someone who didn’t love them.”

            Confused, Betty asks, “You put yourself through this for that? Richie, you’ve very clearly been in hell ever since you got here, you smoke so much it scares me, and not once have you seemed genuinely happy.”

            “Yeah, well,” Richie shrugs half-heartedly. “I’d rather love them and have it hurt then risk not loving them at all.”

            “And Eddie?” Anne pushes.

            Richie hesitates, shaking his head. “It doesn’t matter. I left him, too. Thinking about it… that’ll just make it worse.”

 

 

 

 

            Shuffling up the steps of the final building left on this street feels a lot liking marching into war. After regrouping with the others, they found that all of the had encountered someone who knew Richie by name – and according to the woman at the café, he works here, at the cozy looking motel that Eddie almost marked for them to stay at when he was looking at the map. It’s overwhelming, pushing open the door and knowing that Richie is somewhere in this building.

            There’s a man behind the front desk, his features taut and impatient as he looks up at them. “May I help you?”

            “We heard that Richie Tozier works here,” Mike says.

            “And we’d like to see him,” Ben adds.

            The man frowns and Eddie’s heart stops, afraid that he’ll deny it, afraid that, somehow, everyone else had been confused and that Richie isn’t here at all. But then the man sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose, murmuring, “I swear to god, if that kid brought trouble with him…”

            Hastily, Beverly promises, “There’s no trouble, sir. We’re his friends. We’ve been trying to find him for a while, now. Please, can you get him down here? Please?”

 

 

 

 

            There’s a knock at the door. Before Richie can even respond, Daniel calls out, “Tozier! You have visitors downstairs!”

            “Who?” Richie asks, sharing confused looks with Anne and Betty before climbing out of his bed and scrubbing the tear stains off his cheeks. He quickly slides on his shoes, not bothering to change out of the ratty clothes he slept in, and leads the way into the hall.

            Daniel falters, caught off guard by his obviously emotional appearance, but only offers a shrug. “No clue, but they said they were your friends.”

            “I don’t…” Richie trails off, shaking his head. “I don’t have friends here.”

            Holding his hand in front of him defensively, Daniel states, “I’m just doing as I was asked.” He turns on his heel and starts walking briskly down the hall. Unsure of what else to do, Richie follows, Anne and Betty on his heels, both of them not ready to let him out of their sight after how unstable he’d proven to be that past few hours. As he leads them into the elevator, Daniel tells him, “Whoever they are, they seem excited to see you. The girl said they’ve been looking for you.”

            An idea crosses Richie’s mind, and before he can push it away, he questions, “How many of them are there?”

            “Five?” Daniel estimates, looking uncertain. “Six, maybe? I didn’t count them.”

            Richie turns to meet Betty’s gaze, then slides his gaze over to meet Anne’s as his breathing starts to pick up speed. It can’t be them, but part of him wants it to be, desperate to see the people he loves again. Most of him, however, dreads what’s to come, terrified of who’s waiting for him (who else could it be?) and what they want from him (they’re angry, no doubt; they have every right to be angry).

            When the elevator doors slide open, he can hear a distant chatter from the lobby. From here, it’s hard to tell, but the voices are familiar – it doesn’t take a lot for him to detect who they are, who they belong to. Meekly, he whispers, “It’s them.”

            _It’s not him._ That’s what Anne said when he woke up.

            But now, with a gentle hand on his shoulder and a soothing voice, she mutters, “It’s _him_.”

            “Come on,” Betty encourages, stepping forwards and taking him by the arm to guide him out of the elevator. “Something tells me they missed you just as much as you missed them. You shouldn’t keep them waiting.”

            Wordlessly, Richie lets her lead him down the hall, the voices of his friends getting closer and closer. When they’re just around the corner, he plants his feet and shakes his head, petrified to confront this, but then Anne squeezes his shoulder comfortingly and Betty gives him a reassuring smile, and he reluctantly nods. Then, with a deep, shaky breath, he allows them to bring him into the lobby.

            The first person he sees is Mike, with his squared shoulders and wide grin as he listens to Ben talk excitedly. And that’s who he sees next, Ben, eyes bright and soft hair falling on his forehead. Besides Ben is Stan, who isn’t partaking in the conversation but seems to be listening intensely, nodding along every few moments or so. Then Richie sees Bill, and there’s a slight tension in the way his brows pinch together, as if he’s afraid, too; if Richie squints, he might even say guilty. Behind Bill is Beverly, her hair pulled up into a bun atop her head, gnawing on her lower lip as she whispers reassurances to—

            Oh.

            The fucking lesbians were right.

            It feels like all the air is forced out of his lungs as he looks at Eddie. Just _looks_ , nothing else, noticing all the slight differences in him now than before Richie left. His hair is a little bit longer, just starting to curl around his ears and cover his eyes, which look so tired. Whether it be physical or mental exhaustion, Richie doesn’t know, but he can see it, can see the way his eyelids flutter slightly when he blinks, as if fighting off the urge to go to sleep right here, right now. His body is slightly thinner, and not in a way that looks very healthy, which makes Richie’s heart weep. He wants to walk over there, to fix all the damage he may have caused, but he can’t bring himself to open his mouth, let alone step forward.

            As if sensing eyes on him, Eddie looks away from Beverly and meets Richie’s gaze, and the world fucking stops. Except it doesn’t stop, because this isn’t a movie, this is real, and everything around him keeps going, but he doesn’t see it. Faintly, sounding far, far away, he hears the others shout his name and feels them as they rush at him, everyone trying to pull him into an embrace that he doesn’t return, eyes still locked with Eddie’s, who makes no move to come closer. He doesn’t know how long it takes them to realize he’s unresponsive, but in this headspace of his, time doesn’t matter. Nothing matters but Eddie.

            “You started smoking?”

            Richie blinks at the sound of Eddie’s voice piercing through the silence – a silence that he didn’t even notice was there, and now that it’s been brought to his attention, he can tell that no one else is talking. Hell, maybe no one else is even _breathing_ , everyone holding it in their aching lungs as they wait for the shoe to drop, for something to happen. Shakily, Richie croaks out, “Eds, I—”

            “No!” Eddie snaps, his lower lip quivering and voice wavering as he finally, _finally_ takes a step closer, then another, and another, until he can shove a finger into Richie’s chest and push him back against the wall. His actions are angry, but his eyes say something else, something that makes Richie want to curl in a ball right then and there, because in his eyes is pain. Eddie’s in _pain_ , and it’s Richie’s fault. “You don’t— you don’t get to talk right now, okay? You don’t get to make all these decisions!”

            Desperately, Richie tries again, his voice breaking. “Eddie—”

            Going on as if he can’t hear Richie, Eddie weakly mumbles, “You don’t get to just _leave_ , Richie, okay? You don’t— you can’t _do_ that! You can’t run away from us— from— from _me_.” His voice catches on the last word, and Richie swears his heart is shattering into jagged shards of glass, slicing away at his insides and cracking his ribs along the way.

            Eddie makes no move to keep talking, but his hand flattens against Richie's chest, palm pressing into Richie’s collarbone, as if he’s afraid to let go. Taking a leap, Richie reaches up and takes Eddie’s hand in his own carefully, cautiously, afraid of crossing a line. Two months ago, Richie could never imagine being wary around Eddie, being nervous to touch him, but now everything is different. Now, Richie is _terrified_ , so fucking scared that he’ll do something that’ll make Eddie realize he wasn’t worth chasing after. With a deep breath, he whispers, “I’m sorry.”

            “I—” Eddie cuts off, pressing his lips together and shaking his head, tears gathering in his eyes.

            Lifting his other hand up to cup Eddie’s face gently, Richie brokenly repeats, “I’m _sorry_.”

            Face crumbling, Eddie grips onto Richie’s hand and surges forward, pressing their lips together in a kiss that’s salty and messy at best, the taste of each others tears lingering on their tongues as they pull each other closer, closer, until they can’t tell who’s who, until they’re one, until they’re crying too hard to keep going. Even then, they don’t go too far, enveloping one another in a hug so tight that Richie can’t breathe, but he doesn’t care.

            The only thing he cares about in this moment is the boy in his arms, the boy he ran away from, and he wishes he never left Eddie behind. Yet, somehow, he knows he needed this – knows that, without this journey, he might never have learned the truth whispered in the back of his mind.

            A whisper that sounds oddly like the lesbian couple standing four feet away, but he doesn’t dwell on that. Instead, he pulls away from the hug and kisses Eddie again.

 

 

 

 

            “Wait, you _blamed him?_ What the _fuck_ , Bill?!”

            “I know, I know, I’m sorry, I swear I didn’t—"

            Mike claps a hand on Richie’s shoulder, who looks stuck between being thoroughly pissed off and thoroughly amused, and says, “Don’t worry. They patched it up already.”

            On Richie’s right side, leaning against him with his arm wrapped around Richie’s waist, Eddie nods. “It took a couple days, but Mike’s right. We’re good, Richie.”

            Eyeing Bill warily, Richie reluctantly sighs, tightening his arm around Eddie’s shoulders. “Alright, if you say so. If you want me to punch him, though, I’m so down. I did it once, I’ll do it again.”

            “Oh, please,” Beverly snorts, arms crossed over her chest, cocking an eyebrow at Richie challengingly. “You may have punched him, but I was there when he punched back. You wouldn’t stand a chance.”

            Richie scoffs, but before he can defend himself, Stan speaks up with a laugh. “No, she’s right. You’re enthusiastic, but you have no technique. Bill took boxing as a kid. The winner is obvious.”

            “Yeah, well,” Richie huffs. “Then I’ll lose. Whatever. As long as I get one punch in and he knows it’s for blaming Eddie, I’m happy.”

            With a hum, Eddie turns his head and rests his chin on Richie’s shoulder, eyes bright and playful. “That’s… really stupid, Rich. Like, it’s cute, I guess, but mostly stupid.”

            Grinning, Richie looks down at Eddie, pressing a chaste kiss to his lips, and states, “I’m okay with doing stupid shit if it means defending your honor.”

            “Honor?” Eddie asks, pulling back slightly with a wide smile stretched over his features, happy crinkles around his eyes. “Honey, I fell in with _you_. I don’t have any honor. Or standards, apparently.”

            This gets another hearty snort from Beverly, which tapers off into giggles that blends in with the laughter of everyone else. Richie parts his lips, ready to throw back a teasing insult of his own, but he snaps his mouth shut when a nearby voice breathes, “Oh, _wow_.” Looking up, he meets Anne’s gaze as she enters the room, Betty on her heels. They’d left an hour ago to give them some space, not wanting to interfere with such a joyous reunion. It doesn’t feel like much time has passed, but it’s apparently been long enough, or else they wouldn’t be back yet.

            Richie’s grin falls into a gentle smile when he sees them. “What?”

            Anne shakes her head, reaching behind her to take Betty’s hand in her own. “Nothing,” she murmurs. “It’s just… You look happy. We haven’t seen you happy since you got here.”

            There’s a moment where silence settles over the room as the meaning behind her words dawns on everyone else. They knew, of course, that Richie would have a hard time leaving them, but it never crossed their mind how hard on him it might be. Clearing his throat, Eddie squeezes Richie’s waist softly and asks, “You gonna introduce us?”

            “Oh! Oh, yeah!” Richie releases Eddie, looking reluctant about it, and pushes himself to his feet to gesture towards Anne and Betty. “Losers, these are my adoptive lesbian mothers, Anne and Betty.” Turning around to gesture at his friends, he says, “Adoptive lesbian mothers, these are the losers. I told you about the losers. In order from left to right, we have Beverly, Stan, Bill, Mike, Ben, and—”

            “And him,” Betty muses knowingly, eyeing Eddie as she does so. “We saw the kiss, we know who that is.”

            Richie blanches, dropping his hands and shuffling his feet. “And in true motherly fashion,” he murmurs, falling back into his seat next to Eddie, who’s very obviously trying to stifle his laughter, “they’re embarrassing me. And lying. Don’t listen to them. Lesbians are liars, did you know that? Can’t trust a word they say.”

            Holding his hand out, Eddie chirpily says, “Nice to meet you.”

            “It’s nice to meet you, too,” Anne replies, reaching forward to shake his hand and then stepping aside to let Betty do the same. There’s not much room on Richie’s bed to fit anyone else, but they find a way to perch themselves on the edge anyway.

            It’s Betty who speaks next, her voice cautious and uncertain. “So, should we… set up a goodbye party, then?”

            Richie does a double take, looking at her in shock. “What?”

            “Your friends need you,” Betty explains simply, “and you clearly need them. You’ll be leaving with them, won’t you?”

            “I…” Richie trails off, jaw slack as he looks around the room. “I don’t… I don’t know, uh…”

            Mike reaches over, placing a hand on Richie’s knee, and says, “Actually, when we packed up for this, we packed up for good. I don’t think any of us were every planning on going back once we found you.”

            Richie looks at him cautiously. “Really?”

            “Yeah, really,” Mike nods, offering a comforting smile. He glances around at the others, head cocked to the side, and asks, “Did anyone want to go back after this?” Collectively, the others shake their head, not even needing to think about it before giving an answer. Derry is not a home to any of them. The choice is an easy one to make.

            Shaking his head, Richie quickly argues, “You guys can’t give up your plans for me, though. That’s why— that’s why I _left_ , you can’t—”

            “Our plan,” Eddie interrupts, clutching Richie’s hand firmly, “is to stay together. It always was. You just always walked away when we tried to ask you where you wanted to go.” Richie falters, staring down at Eddie in uncertainty, so much insecurity in his eyes that it makes Eddie’s heart hurt. And then, suddenly, it makes sense. “You thought we were gonna leave you, didn’t you?”

            Before Richie can try to deny it, Betty speaks up. “That’s what he told us.”

            Anne nods. “He said it’d be easer to blame himself for leaving you then possibly resenting you for leaving him.”

            “I can speak for myself,” Richie states, not exactly harsh, but definitely stern. This causes Anne and Betty to both seal their lips shut as Richie looks back down at Eddie warily. Slowly, he explains, “I didn’t think you guys would _want_ to leave me, but it… it felt inevitable, you know? Like, all of you are so full of potential, and I know you’ll all go off and do great things, be successful. I’m not like you, though. I was gonna be stuck there, and you guys were gonna leave, and I couldn’t… I couldn’t deal with that.”

            Looking affronted, Eddie tells him, “We’d never leave you behind, Richie. Without you, there is no success.”

            Richie isn’t convinced, but he can’t think of a response, so he just slots their mouths together for a sweet kiss, trying not to let himself get choked up. He’s cried more than enough today. When he pulls back, all he can manage to mutter is, “Okay.”

            “Okay?” Eddie questions.

            “Yeah,” Richie nods. “Okay.”

            Betty glances between them, then turns to the others, confused. “What does this mean?”

            “It means,” Anne says knowingly, grinning at the two boys before her, “that we better give them some rooms. These kids aren’t going anywhere.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> to clarify the connection between this fic and the whisper prompt (it's vague, so i feel like i need to explain):
> 
> all the important things are whispered. all of the reddie moments (before the ending, of course) are whispered moments. richie's subconscious always ends up thinking about eddie in a soft, whispered kind of way, so that it's not too obvious but it's definitely there.
> 
> let me know what you think, and as always, hmu on tumblr @ sunsetozier!!

**Author's Note:**

> let me know what you think and hmu on tumblr @ sunsetozier!


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